For the Final Record
by lillianempire
Summary: Many years in the future, ninety-eight year old Dana Scully is interviewed about her life, particularly her relationship with Fox Mulder. This story is also turning into one about Emily and William. Rated M. Beware of incest, adult language, and minor drug usage. **There is no chapter 18 in this story because it became the first chapter of "Mary Scully."
1. Chapter 1

Anne Link Interview with former FBI Agent Dana Scully

As part of the NAU Writer's Project: Interviews of Old Republic Employees

August 7, 2062

 ** _Interviewer's note:_** _I recorded my series of interviews in Dana Scully's home between September 4, 2061 to March 11, 2062. Although nearing 100 years old, she appeared to be in good health, of clear mind, and was able to consciously consent to these interviews. What follows are excerpts from October 12-14, 2061, in which we discussed her mysterious and ambiguous relationship with her former partner, the late Fox Mulder (d. March 14, 2041). I have dubbed this series "For the Final Record." Although we touched on Mulder in previous sessions and after, I have decided not to compile those interviews into this particular one. The rest of the interviews will be provided upon Dana Scully's completion of her Privacy Wavier._

 **Anne Link:** It is Sunday, October 12, 2061. About 10:05 am. I am in Dana Scully's home, [redacted], NAU. Dana, do I have your permission to record this interview?

 **Dana Scully:** Yes, you do.

 **AL:** Thank you. Well…where did you want to begin today?

 **DS:** You should know by now that this is your ship _(laughs)._ You're in total control.

 **AL:** I feel like you know what I want to ask you today. We've talked a little about it already?

 **DS:** Yes. Yes, we have.

 **AL:** Okay. _(Papers shuffling. Sound of DS's coffee cup sliding on the table.)_ When did your relationship with Fox Mulder begin? Romantic relationship?

 **DS:** I don't know if it was romantic…maybe it was. We never had candlelight dinners or any of that. And I'm not sure if "relationship" is the right way to say it. It was more than that. There's a special bond you have with someone that you've saved and they've saved you. From death, from darkness, from everything. I don't know what that term is. Someone should come up with it. I'm too old to think of new things now. But….it was intimate, affectionate long before it was romantic.

 **AL:** When did that start?

 **DS:** Intimacy?

 **AL:** Yes.

 **DS:** Probably from the first case we worked. Well, the first few anyway. I had to learn to trust him. Quick. There was a case we worked, in the early days, in Alaska, well…what used to be Alaska. There were these worms, these organisms that if they got into your brain they'd make you go crazy. A person could become completely different. Aggressive, angry. A killer. Not themselves at all. And I was worried it had gotten into him and he was changed, no matter how many times he denied it. It turned out that someone else there with us had been infected with this parasite, not him. He was right. I learned then, in some ways, that he wouldn't lie to me. He wouldn't put me or anyone else in danger, no matter how it seemed. I suppose when you learn to trust someone that way that you also begin to love them. But I always tried, no matter how strongly I felt in any fashion, to keep it, you know, business between us. At some point, it became impossible to do that anymore. For either of us.

 _Pauses. Quiet for a few seconds._

I first admitted to myself that I loved him when I thought he loved someone else. Isn't that how it goes? You always want what you can't have? I didn't want to lose what we had, the trust and the intimacy that we'd created. But as soon as this woman, this other Agent, seemed to take him away from me, that was when I could admit it to myself, even though I'd known I'd loved him for a long time.

 **AL:** Who was the other Agent?

 **DS:** It doesn't matter now. She died in the line of duty.

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 1998, Dana Scully_

I feel like we've been in this dance, floating around something, but never crossing the boundary into what it could be. What it should be. Does he have any idea how much I want to cross that line? How much I think about it? There is no advice column in the world that could handle this situation. No psychologist or therapist that would remotely understand or would be capable of talking me through this. It's like we've unofficially pushed the pause button on the intimacy between us, so it doesn't grow or shrink, it's in this perpetual suspension. Waiting. I didn't think there was anything that would come along and mess it up, and now there has. If I could go back, just a couple of days or maybe even a year, I would not have let us push the pause button.

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 1999, Dana Scully_

And now, if it ever becomes even remotely possible that I'll lose him, I don't think I'll be able to bear it…

He left this morning, but my shower, my bed still smells like him hours later. Still warm from what happened last night. He's come to my home many times and left my home many times. But the other night I didn't want him to just leave. I told him I didn't want him to go. I walked across the room and kissed him. He kissed me back as if he'd been expecting it; absolutely no hesitation. We didn't say anything. We didn't take time to measure out the risks or even consider how this would impact the future. I just took him into my bedroom. When I close my eyes and concentrate I can feel him undressing me again, feel myself on top of him, my thighs rubbing against his hips, my hands guiding him inside of me.

That first time was rather quick and frantic, but the second time was slower and more deliberate. His thrusts were slower, his kisses softer. We took our time, it seemed, because despite all that we'd been through, this was new for both of us. Just in case it never happened again, just in case it would be the last and only time, I forced myself to be fully present. I wanted to record every sound, every touch so I never forgot. I haven't forgotten how his skin felt against mine or the sound of his breath in my ear. Even though we have slept together for three nights now, we still haven't talked about it. It just happens, we fall asleep in each other's arms, and one of us leaves in the morning. Maybe this is part of the perpetual suspension, the allegorical pause button we seem to be unable to let go of: keep things the same for as long as possible until it becomes unbearable.

 **DS:** There are only two reasons why you're asking me about Mulder and I. One reason is William, and the other is you just want to know if we fucked.

 **AL:** …I…uh…well, I wouldn't put it that way….

 **DS:** I can answer that second part of that very easily – yes. Yes, we did. I remember the second time better because the second time is always better. At first, you're both so nervous, seemingly unskilled, and unfamiliar with each other's bodies. But the second time the nervous energy is mostly gone, and you can concentrate on one another more fully.

 _Long pause. DS gets more coffee._

He would call me Dana. When we were together, making love, he would call me by my first name. I know that doesn't seem unusual to you, but it was for us. In our line of work we went by last names, so when he called me Dana it was special, meaningful. We married once we found out he had to go into hiding and I was pregnant.

 **AL:** Are you sure you married him? I haven't found any licenses or -

 **DB:** You won't. We didn't make it legal. It was…ceremonial. I knew a priest that would marry us, and we had three friends who would be our witnesses. It was the middle of the night. Ironically, I was wearing white – white pajamas. _[laughs softly]_ It probably looked silly to anyone that happened to walk in.

 _Private Electronic Journal, c. 2001, Dana Scully_

Our voices echoed off the cathedral walls, the only light were the candles and the moonlight when the clouds parted.

"I, Dana Katherine Scully, take thee Fox William Mulder…."

Frohike and Langly were sniffling, all the sounds blending together in that empty space in an eerie sort of way.

"…to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold…"

Byers stood up and handed Mulder a ring. I said I didn't have one for Mulder and he put his hands on my face, gently brushing away my messy hair, "It's okay," he said. He gently slid his mother's wedding band over my finger. "She would have wanted you to have this."

He kissed me before we were pronounced man and wife, holding onto each other because we both knew after tonight it would be a while before we saw one another again. We spent our wedding night in my apartment, carefully removing each other's clothes as if we'd never done this before. I suddenly felt very shy and vulnerable. I tried to wrap my arms around myself, worried I was already starting to show. He pulled my hands toward him. "Please, Dana. Let me look at you. Let me look at my wife." I didn't want to start crying, I didn't want to ruin this moment with sadness, but a couple tears escaped anyway. Looking back, maybe I was just happy that he called me his wife, and that we, finally, belonged to each other.

I kissed every part of him, and when he was inside me, I slowed him down because I didn't want it to end. He pulled me down on top of him, never losing eye contact. Afterwards, we held each other so close, our hearts pounding out our fear, our passion, our love almost in unison. His lips passed over my ear, his breath softly slowing from our lovemaking, "I love you, Dana. I love you more than anything."

"I love you, too." I said. Then we were quiet, holding onto each other, cherishing each second until he would have to leave; leave me and my child so we could be safe.

 **DS:** We married so William would have a father. I didn't tell Mulder that William was his son. Not at first. I knew that if I did, he would try to stay. He would never leave us and he would be in danger. Actually, we would all be in danger.

 **AL:** So, William was Fox Mulder's son?

 **DS:** Yes.

 **AL:** But you did see him again, right?

 **DS:** Yes.

 **AL:** Wasn't there another child? Didn't you have another baby?

 **DS:** _[getting up from the table]_ I'm tired. Can you come back tomorrow?

 **AL:** Of course.

 _[End of recording.]_


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. Wells poured himself a cup of tea, then offered some to Anne. She politely declined. He gestured for her to begin.

"I don't think she's telling me the truth."

Dr. Wells dumped sugar into his tea. "What makes you think that?"

"I don't know. It just seems like she's withholding something. Like maybe she's telling me what I want to hear rather than what actually happened."

"She is near a hundred, you know. The memory isn't the sharpest at that age."

"She's not like any old person, though." Anne was still shocked at how Dana Scully looked the day they met and did the first interview. A recluse since the fall of the Old Republic, no one had seen the woman in decades. Anne had expected a frail, hobbling old lady. Instead, Dana Scully was bright eyed, articulate, and moved about with ease. Her hair was white as snow, but she was healthy and vibrant. Far more youthful than Anne had expected.

"Even if she isn't telling you everything," Dr. Wells was saying, "it doesn't matter. The purpose of this project is to capture what our subjects perceive as truth. The past and their own lives through their eyes."

"I guess." Anne looked disappointed.

"Try to manage your expectations. Almost everyone from the Old Republic is distrustful of us."

Anne said nothing.

Dr. Wells sat back in his chair. "Did she talk to you about her family?"

"Her parents?"

"No. Her family. Her children."

"She sort of mentioned William. That's one of the things I don't think she's being truthful about. I don't think William was Agent Mulder's son. I think they had a kid, but it wasn't William. I think she had two children."

"Be careful about that," Dr. Wells said slowly. "If you go in thinking she isn't being truthful, it will reflect in the interview."

"I know," Anne tried not to sound whiney or childish.

Dr. Wells nodded behind him to the Great Seal of the North American Union. It blended the arctic north into forests and prairies, which faded into desert. An attempt at creating a cohesive nation. A Union.

"Remember the goal, the endgame."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. See you tomorrow."

* * *

 **AL:** It's Monday evening, October 13, 2061. About 6:13pm. We are at Dana Scully's home, in her backyard, [redacted], NAU. Dana, do I have your permission to record this interview?

 **DS:** Yes.

 **AL:** Great. There are just a couple things that I want to clear up from yesterday. First, you said you married Fox Mulder but not legally?

 **DS:** Right. We didn't file any papers or get a license.

 **AL:** You didn't change your name?

 **DS:** No.

 **AL:** How would that have made him William's father, since you said he was anyway, biologically?

 **DS:** I guess that was confusing. Perhaps I should explain it better. You see, I wasn't supposed to be able to have children as a result of the abduction years before.

 **AL:** Abduction?

 **DS:** Yes. We talked about it.

 **AL:** But…who…?

 **DS:** We talked about it, Anne. _[Sound of papers shuffling]_ I hadn't been partners with Mulder for very long. I was in that…that stage you young girls get in, the crush stage. Whatever you want to call it. I knew, but I didn't know what I was feeling. I'm not sure if that's even possible. But in the middle of all that, one night I was gone, then…the game changed. We rewrote the rules.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry_ , _c. 1994, Dana Scully_

If I were still in high school, I guess I'd be writing our initials on things. DS+FM. With hearts, too, probably. Melissa told me to memorize a phone book, then she also told me to just go have a one night stand. "Cures" for an alleged illness.

The other night I brought him some food while he was surveilling Tooms. I could tell he was tired, sleep drunk, and probably not thinking clearly. I wanted to be serious, personal, so I called him Fox. He shot that down, saying even his parents called him Mulder. For a second, I was embarrassed. Like I'd been caught with something on my face. But then I told him that I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but him. I'd been inching close to the edge of that branch, slowly, taking deep breaths like a high diver, then I just jumped off.

Maybe it was because he was tired or maybe my ego is far more fragile than I thought, but he turned it into kind of a joke. An attempt at levity. I know I wanted him to say the same, and I'm sure he thinks and feels the same way about me. But I wanted him to _say it_. I wanted the words and the sounds to come out of his mouth, returning the jump, the risk. But…he didn't.

I need to stop thinking about it. We're partners. It's business. It can never be more than that.

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry_ , _c. 1994, Dana Scully_

 _I don't remember!_

I'm tired of saying it. I don't know what happened to me. I don't remember. I'm not being entirely truthful, though. I remember some things, but I'm still hoping they weren't real. I'm trying to explain away visions of my father, talking to me, coaxing me back to the world of the living. I wasn't scared. I felt…safe. At peace. And then…I was awake.

Maybe Mulder thinks my experience is an extension of himself. That I will, in time, become living proof of one of his theories. Things have changed between us, there's no doubt. He respects my insistence that I am fine, that I want to work, that I want it all to be as it was before. That I really do have nerves of steel. But the way he looks at me, as if there's a secret alien code etched in my eyes or that any minute I'll shatter like glass…I don't like it. The other day, he told me that he never gave up hope that I would be returned to him. I knew what he was doing. I knew he was taking Samantha's experience and merging it with mine. I'm another step closer and higher for him to climb onto and shout his theories to the men in the clouds. I thought we'd go into that hand in hand, when all the evidence was clear, but I'm the evidence. That's how he sees me now. A clue in a long mystery game neither of us will win.

* * *

 **DS:** As a result of the experiments and tests done on me, without my consent, I became barren. Years later, I came across one of my ova, preserved and intact.

 **AL:** Your….ova? How on earth would you find that?

 **DS:** By breaking laws. And being in the wrong place at the right time. I saw it as my chance to be a mother; something I didn't know I really wanted until I couldn't have it. I asked Mulder to be the father. That conversation… _[laughs softly]_. I've been face to face with killers and creatures that would make your skin crawl, but when I asked him, I was petrified. My voice just shaking…he said he would, but I didn't conceive. Not that time. Then Mulder said to me not to lose hope. That there might still be a miracle. That was when we really became lovers I guess, when we really crossed the line and stayed there. We knew things would never be the same between us and we were okay with it. Well…I was, at least. Maybe I became pregnant because we didn't use artificial means. Or maybe miracles really do exist. I still don't know.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2000, Dana Scully_

I don't know how to describe how I feel. I've been backspacing over the same sentence over and over again, trying to comprehend. Trying to form the most difficult feelings into actual words.

It didn't work. Mulder's sperm didn't fertilize my egg. How dry that sounds, like we were in a lab, under microscopes. When he came by, and I told him, he assured me that there could still be a miracle.

I didn't think. I didn't allow myself to think. I just kissed him, pulling him over to the couch, climbing on top of him, wanting him, needing him, until he stopped me, taking my face in his hands, looking me in the eyes. "Are you sure?"

I looked at him, confused.

"I need to know that you're sure about this. That you're not doing this because you expect…that something might happen."

I stared at him for a long time, then looked down at us. My shirt unbuttoned, his on the floor. Was that the appropriate reaction? I don't know. I pulled my shirt around myself, and sat next to him. We were quiet for a long time. I thought he might leave, then he asked me if I wanted him to stay. I don't remember answering him. We lay there in my bed together, partially naked. I was so cold, and he was so warm. He kept me so close to him, but it didn't feel close enough. When he spoke I felt the rumble of his voice against my forehead, his breath in my hair. I never know if this will be the last time. I rubbed my hands down his back, and breathed him in. I wanted him in in me; I wanted him in my lungs. It was these moments that I liked best, when we didn't need to hear each other, but just feel. Tangled legs, skin against skin. Every second, every moment, every part of him. I have to remember in case it's the last time.

"I'm not going to sleep," I told him.

"Then I won't either."

He turned me so my back was facing him. I asked him what he was doing.

"You kept it?" He traced the outline of my tattoo. I closed my eyes, feeling his fingers on the curve of my back. Memories flooding back of that one night that I lost myself. Or maybe I found myself.

"Yeah. You've never seen it?"

"No. I thought you had it removed. There was poison in the ink?

"No. I kept it. I didn't get sick."

He pulled me into his arms, kissing my shoulders. "I like it."

I laughed. He said he wasn't joking. Neither of us slept. He held me like that until the sun was up. It wasn't enough. I want more nights like that with him. It's not enough.

* * *

 **AL:** But you didn't tell Mulder?

 **DS:** I told him I was pregnant. I didn't tell him that he was the father. Not right away.

 **AL:** But…wouldn't he have assumed?

 **DS:** I don't know. By then, we knew he had to leave. He'd become a fugitive. If he knew, he never said so, and I didn't want to keep him with me, as much as I wanted to. I was a selfish woman sometimes, but I couldn't be then.

 **AL:** So…your other child you had later when you saw him again?

 _[Sounds of DS getting up from the bench, walking across the yard. Several minutes of silence.]_

 **DS:** The old capitol is just six hours north of here, did you know that? I don't know what's there now. It's been…thirty years, maybe forty since I've been up there.

 _[Long pause.]_

Six hours…maybe back then, but now I guess it wouldn't take so long. Six hours or longer, depending on the traffic. Your generation is lucky. You won't ever know what that's like. But all that up there, it's all gone now, isn't it?

 **AL:** I don't know.

 **DS:** People probably tell you that when you're older, you'll know things. You'll know better. You'll be wiser. _[Long pause]_ It's not true.

 **AL:** Do you miss him still? Mulder?

 **DS:** That's stupid question, Anne.

 **AL:** I can come back later, Dana. If you're tired.

 **DS:** Okay.

 _[End of recording.]_


	3. Chapter 3

**DS:** Thank you for coming back. _[shuffling sounds]_ I couldn't sleep. I don't really sleep anyway –

 **AL:** It's okay – _[sounds of dishes and glasses clinking]_

 **DS:** Not more than a few hours at a time. Do you want some tea or…I have coffee.

 **AL:** I'm okay. Dana, do I have your permission to record this interview?

 **DS:** Yes.

 **AL:** Okay. It's Monday, October 13, 2061, about 11:42pm. We are in Dana Scully's home, [redacted], NAU.

 **DS:** You always have to say that, don't you?

 **AL:** Yes.

 **DS:** I'm sorry. About earlier. I know it's your job and you're supposed to ask. I don't know what you've found on me, or what's left from the Old Republic, but most of what you've found, I'm sure, is tied to other people. Mostly Mulder. As it should be. But as much as we were together, one and the same, on the same quest, I'm still…me. This is my story. Please let me tell it how I want to.

 **AL:** I understand.

 **DS:** And I know you want to know about William. I'll get to it. It's not hard for me to think about him, but it's hard for me to talk about him. I think it's because I think about him every minute of every day, but I don't talk about him to anyone. Not at all.

 _[DS drinking coffee, sitting down at the table.]_

I didn't get morning sickness. I got night sickness. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, sick as a dog, and throw up for an hour. Being a doctor, I just tried to rationalize it away as food poisoning or a virus. But one night I got up, vomited several times, then went to the drugstore. I bought ten pregnancy tests and every single one was positive. I thought maybe I should call my mother, but I ended up going to see Mulder. By then, he was staying with some friends of ours. They called themselves The Lone Gunmen. You've found information on them, I assume?

 **AL:** Yeah.

 **DS:** They were good men. You won't see that in your records or data, but they were. I guess now they'd be considered heroes. But I didn't want to tell Mulder in front of them, though. It was far too personal. We went and sat out in my car. They let us as long as Langly could check my car for any recording devices and Byers could stand guard. It was so silly, but so necessary. All I said to Mulder was "I'm pregnant." Just like that. Simple. Easy. He didn't really say anything. He took my hand in both of his and we just sat there. I don't even know for how long. Then he said to me that we needed to go somewhere. Right now. That was when we had our ceremony. It was all so impulsive, so quick that I felt like I didn't have enough time to really process all of it. But…that was how it happened; how I became a mother and a wife in just one night.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2001, Dana Scully_

Can I just stay here? Can I just stay here in my home, in my bed forever? Hiding in my cave of blankets and pillows, shutting out everything and everyone, until I can see him again? Can I just lay here, letting my belly grow, have my baby, and never see another person? Why can't I just sleep…for the next nine months at least? I don't want to lie to everyone, take off this ring, and pretend none of it never happened. Before they took Mulder away, Frohike told me if I ever needed anything, he'd be here in a second. I almost want to call him, because I need someone now. Anyone at all. I need someone to force me to go about my days as if everything were normal. I don't think I can do any of this alone. I don't want to be alone.

* * *

 _Electronic Communication, year unknown, TrustNo1 (Fox Mulder) to Dana Scully_

All I have is time. Days and nights, rushing at me like a freight train, then slowing into nothingness. To think, let my mind just take over. Lately, I've been thinking about when I should have stopped all this, when I should have given up. It should have been when you came out of the coma, when despite all the odds, you lived. I should have given up then, taken you away with me, and made that the end of it. But I made the decision to not give up, not let them get away with what they'd done to you, to us, and ultimately lead to this…. We should have just let them win.

I can't see you…I can't hear your voice. I can't listen to your logic, holding me together, the substance that makes me a whole person. I can't turn over in my bed to see you there sleeping with me, your pulse beating slowly at the base of your neck, making me breathless. I need your assurance, your strength. I need your heartbeat, steady and strong, against mine. Without you, I am a ghost. Without you, I am a phantom, partial existence, two dimensional, moving through this three dimensional world. I don't exist, I am not fully alive, without you.

I am a ghost, suspended between the world of the living and the world of the dead, until I can see you again. Sometimes I just stare at my hands because I can swear they are becoming translucent, fading with time into nothing. Reality blurs into something intangible.

What has formed between us has become so sacred that I worship and pray to it every day. I ask it to keep you safe, keep you going, and keep William safe, too. I ask it if I can please stay whole and solid until it's all over. When it's over. But what about after that? Am I going to lose you this time? I need forgiveness for asking too much of you. I need redemption for leaving you alone with danger, with a child, and without me.

* * *

 **AL:** But the next day, Mulder left? You went through your pregnancy alone?

 **DS:** He left the next night. We had one whole day for our so-called "honeymoon," I guess. It didn't feel that way. It felt like seconds passed before he was gone.

 **AL:** Do you know where he went?

 **DS:** No. I know…generally where he was. It was best that way, I suppose. The less I knew, the safer we all were.

 _[DS getting up from her chair.]_

Do you mind if I turn that light on over there? It seems too dark in here.

 **AL:** Yeah, that's fine.

 _[Sounds of DS moving around the room.}_

 **DS:** We faked an abduction. Well…not really "we." I wasn't in on all the details at first. I don't think Mulder was either.

 **AL:** Like a…like aliens?

 **DS:** There had to be a way for him to disappear. There needed to be witnesses. It wasn't like a faking-your-own-death scenario. It was an abduction scenario. But with out aliens. The fact that there were or could be extraterrestrials was implied. It was our friends and allies.

 **AL:** Who took him? Who abducted him?

 **DS:** I'm not really sure about all the logistics. The Lone Gunmen, they planned most of it out. Mulder was transported safely to an undisclosed location…like I said, I generally knew where. One of those former Canadian territories. I don't remember which one now. But to everyone else, the Bureau, even my family, he was on Mars or just tumbling through space. Or dead.

 _[Long pause.]_

There was a way for us to meet if we needed to. And a way to communicate. Not too often or anything or for long periods of time. I had to be careful about that, about asking to see him or talk to him. I couldn't be too impulsive because he wouldn't hesitate. He often tossed aside his own self-preservation…for me. Anything I asked of him.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2001/2002, Dana Scully [year approximate per DS]_

I've done nothing since I got home.

A long car ride, round trip 18 hours, with Frohike. I slept through most of it. When we crossed the border the temperature seemed to immediately drop 20 degrees. When we got there, hours and miles later, I thought I'd see Byers and Langly, but Frohike told me they were looking out from a distance. Listening, too, probably. I've given up on privacy. He dropped me off in an abandoned parking lot with an abandoned convenience store.

"There's no reception out here. We checked. No cellular, radio, TV, nothing. So you won't be able to call me if something goes wrong. Do you have your weapon?"

I said I did.

"Good. Mulder doesn't."

"You took his gun?"

"We hid it. He knows where. I'm going to drive back down the road a bit to make sure we weren't followed."

We'd just driven across a long-neglected highway. The sun was setting, but there was still enough of the late bluish light to see by. I didn't see how anyone on earth could know where we were, but I understood and respected his precautions. Before I got out of the car, he put his hand on my arm and urged me to be careful. I'd gotten used to his leering eyes and flirtatious joking, but in his face at that moment all I saw was genuine concern and respect.

I told him I would, then got out of the car. Despite how I felt, how badly I needed to see him, I stood there until Frohike was back on the road, driving away. Mulder and I were really and truly alone. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat as I crunched through the snow to the back of the building. We saw each other at the same time, approaching quickly, I thought I'd fall into his arms immediately. But we slowed to a stop right in front of each other, so close that our breath mingled in the chilly air.

His eyes were red, his skin rough around his jawline, but it was him. It was Mulder. He pulled me into him, enveloping me, taking me in. I pressed my head into his chest, the cold keeping me from coming completely apart right there.

"Scully…." His voice cracked like he was going to cry.

He gently tilted my head up and kissed me, over and over, his breath warm on my cheek. I pulled away and looked up at him, moving my eyes around his face, etching it in my memory. Studying and recording him like data. When he rested his forehead against mine, we both whispered "I loved you" at the same time, then laughed. Like a young, untroubled couple on the beach. Like normal.

I let him hold me close for as long as he wanted. I thought if Frohike came back right then, I'd die. There was nowhere else I wanted to be.

"Frohike didn't try to take you to a sleezy motel?"

I didn't have to see his face. I knew he was smirking at his own dumb joke.

"How are you? How's…?" He put his hand on my abdomen.

"Good. Doctor says everything is fine."

"But you're worried."

I didn't want to talk. I told him I wasn't worried. It was a lie.

"Have you told anyone?"

"No."

"Not Skinner? Doggett?"

"Skinner. Not Doggett."

I looked up at him, the soft evening light grazing over his eyes. "I know what you're thinking. We know we can trust Skinner. I don't know about Doggett. Not yet."

"Scully –"

"I don't want to talk. I don't want to spend our time talking about that."

Frohike had left us alone for at least an hour, but it felt like only 2 or 3 minutes had gone by. I knew we couldn't be alone much longer. I knew that our friends were risking a lot to protect us and make that hour possible. But I didn't want to leave him. His heartbeat on my cheek, his scent of wood smoke and soap, the tips of his fingers threading through mine. None of this is right. We should be together, all the time, warm in our own home, fighting over the remote control, complaining to our friends about how the other one snores. But that isn't ever going to be us, is it? There's never going to be anything "normal" or "right" about us. We chose this, though, didn't we? We chose to trust each other, to care about each other, then love each other. I might as well lean into it. Give it everything I have.

He pulled me up in his arms, almost lifting me off my feet, kissing me slowly. I tried not to rush it. I wanted it slow and slower. Not frantically, like a drowning woman, the way I wanted to, clinging to him like he was about to fall off a cliff. No. Slowly so I could remember. I beg God, if He's listening, to please not let this be the last time.

I got back in the car and we drove off, back home. I turned around and watched his figure get smaller until it was too dark for me to see him anymore.

* * *

 **AL:** Did you get to see him much?

 **DS:** No. Not enough. Maybe twice. When you love someone and they return that love, it's an amazing, beautiful thing. Everything becomes amplified. I've been in love twice in my life. Real love. Fake love is…an orgasm. It's intense, but it's over too fast. Real love has something else behind it, supporting it and sustaining it. For Mulder and me, it was respect and trust that could only have evolved from what we went through together. I fell in love with my son the second I felt him moving in me. I was in the car. I had to pull over and just cry. It's all so what we can feel as human beings. What we can do. But even the bad feelings…

 _[Sounds of DS walking around room.}_

I always pretended, every time I saw him, Mulder, that it would be the last time. It was the only way to shut off the endless commentary in my head and just _be_ with him. I don't know what his coping strategy was, but I absorbed every second. We were both afraid of losing each other. Not like one of us falling out of love or finding someone else, but really losing each other. Anyway, to go back to your question, I only got to see him when it was safe.

 **AL:** And when you saw him again? When he came back?

 **DS:** I was huge by then. It was short-lived anyway. He pretty much died a fugitive. He was gone again as soon as he was home. He had to be. After I had William, I was going to tell him then, that William was our son. But knowing he was still in so much danger….I just didn't say anything. If I did, I would be responsible for him losing his life, and he would have, too. If he tried to die some noble death to keep me safe, it would have killed me. I couldn't _not_ have him. Right then I could only have him one way – from a distance.

 _[Sound of AL yawning.]_

 **DS:** _[chuckling]_ Are you tired? I hope I'm not boring.

 **AL:** No, not at all. I am tired, though. Sorry.

 **DS:** It's okay. You can come back tomorrow. Or later today. I didn't know how late it was.

 **AL:** What time?

 **DS:** Anytime. I'm always here.

 _[End of recording.]_

* * *

"Have you seen it?" Sam shoved the tablet in William's face.

"Seen what?" William was distracted, watching his grandchildren play. He always took away their devices when they visited. He wanted to see where their natural inclinations took them without mindless stimulation.

"The Anne Link interview. They're uploading it into the repository piece by piece this time." Sam shoved the tablet at William again.

"Who?" William pretended to be interested in the tablet.

"Anne Link."

"Ah. Old Republic?"

"Union."

Sam sat down, uninvited, making William irritated.

"Those damn Privacy Nazis in the Council took out everything," Sam said angrily. "And Wells…he's having them use _audio_ recorders! For fucking 'authenticity!' Those old-timey things are compatible only with the old programs that have no code. No backup. Once it's gone, it's just gone! They said the project was for the sake of transparency. Right. Well, where is it?!"

William looked thoughtful, watching his grandchildren. It made him proud that they both displayed a natural competitiveness and aptitude for physical endurance at such a young age. He was sure they'd go far and be twice as successful as anyone in their family.

"You're not mad enough about this," Sam said.

"Who was Anne Link interviewing?"

"Dana Scully."

"Oh." William watched as his granddaughter challenged her brother at who could swing the highest. They were fraternal twins, but the girl, Tamryn, was much taller and stronger.

"Sam, we'll talk about it later. It's family time right now."

"Okay," Sam got up, taking his tablet. "Read it when you get a chance."

"I will." William stood up as Sam left. "Kids, go inside and help your Aunt Emily."


	4. Chapter 4

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2001/2002, Dana Scully [year approximate per DS}_

My sleeping schedule is all screwed up. I didn't sleep last night, and I probably won't sleep tonight either. For the first time in a long time, I actually want a cigarette. And a big bottle of wine to go with it. I don't know if this is part of my pregnancy cravings or I'm just tired. My body wants things that are not good for me or the baby.

This time it was Byers that drove me up. Frohike must have lost a bet. The trip didn't seem as long and we went somewhere different this time. I asked Byers where we were going and he said that Mulder had moved. I'm still not sure if it's because he had to or that's just part of the plan. We had to switch cars along the route. Is it bad that it was at that point that I began to think this was all too much? Too ridiculous or dangerous or something? Am I just far too selfish and needy after all?

Byers took me to a motel that, at first, looked just as abandoned as the last place we'd been. He handed me a key.

"Room 108. He'll be here later."

"How long do we have this time?" I cringed, not really wanting to know the answer.

"One of us will be here at sunrise."

It was already dark. Stars shining down from a clear sky. Not enough time. It will never be enough. I went to room 108, it was ugly and dark. It smelled like an ashtray mixed with the chemical, flowery scent of bargain air fresheners. Not at all romantic. Squalid and underhanded, a place for dirty secrets to settle into the carpet like dust.

I don't know how long I waited. I didn't bother turning on any lights. When he got there, I stood up, but before I could speak, he was across the room, pulling me into his arms and kissing me in an aggressive way that I wasn't used to.

We just couldn't stop. Not even to catch our breaths, to say hello, or say anything at all. He kissed my neck, unbuttoning and unzipping, hungrily, almost angrily.

"Mulder…" I took his face in my hands, looking into his eyes to see what I would find there. Was he crying? Or had been?

"I'm sorry," he breathed into my hair, setting me back down on the bed, getting down on his knees in front of me. He traced his thumb over my lips. "You don't know what this is like for me."

"This is hard on me, too."

He told me he didn't think I would be here this time. I was confused. Where was this coming from?

"This does _nothing_ for you," he whispered. " _Nothing_ to help you. It puts you in danger. And there's more risk now, more to lose. Why come back?"

I sank down on my knees in front of him. I put my hand on his chest, right over his heart, his skin so warm. Then I took his hand, shaking and sweating, and clumsily put it against my breast, right over my heart.

"Nothing?" I whispered back. "How can this be nothing?"

I searched his face for my answer. He closed his eyes for a minute, and when he opened them I saw that he understood.

He was finally here with me, in that room, in that time, in that place. In those moments, sliding under the blankets together, concentrating to keep the spell unbroken. My hands slid along his back, the tips of my fingers on his shoulders, memorizing each ridge, each movement of muscle under his skin. He brought my hand to his lips. Kissing my palm, my wrist, the bend of my arm at my elbow. And when he was inside me, slow and deep, a thin sheen of sweat formed on our bodies as we tried hard to keep it going. Giving ourselves to each other. Clinging to each other, slowing and quickening, slowing and quickening, until it was too much, the pressure breaking inside both of us, gasping against each other's mouths, inhaling and exhaling into solemn stillness.

We wrapped ourselves around each other, holding on until I would have to leave again. I wanted so badly to fall asleep like that, feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against my cheek as it slowed. God, it is never enough. I wanted to stay. Who would miss me? Who would even notice? But reality appeared with the sun, weak light through stained curtains. I said my prayer again, begging God, to not let this be the last time. It has become my ritual now, after we embrace, I'm getting superstitious because he was right – I do have more to lose now.

* * *

 **AL:** It's Tuesday, October 14, 2061. About 11:17am. We are in Dana Scully's home, [redacted], NAU. Dana, do I have your -? Dana?

 **DS:** In here. I'm taking down these curtains. It just gets too dark in here. Yes, you have my permission to record this interview.

 **AL:** Okay. Do you want some help?

 **DS:** No. _[sounds of DS walking back into the room]_ Okay, that's much better. Did you get some rest?

 **AL:** I did. Did you?

 **DS:** After you get to be a certain age, I guess you can overpay your sleeping debt and just not really need it anymore.

 **AL:** I see. So…were you with Mulder when William was born?

 **DS:** Hm. If you're asking if he was physically with me that night, no. Agent Reyes, Monica Reyes was there.

 **AL:** Monica Reyes?

 **DS:** Yes. She was a good friend. At times, so much more than that. Incredibly brave. Loyal. We were very close all the way up until she passed, about six years ago. I guess I really am the last one now. She was interviewed, wasn't she?

 **AL:** I think so. Not by me.

 **DS:** And William…I was afraid he was going to come out looking…wrong. I was afraid there was something wrong with him. Like physically, a birth defect or something. But he looked normal. He was just a healthy baby boy…on the outside.

 _[Long pause.]_

There was something wrong, or…unusual about him. He was able to do things babies shouldn't be able to do. Or anyone.

 **AL:** Like…?

 **DS:** He's still alive, Anne. I can't.

 **AL:** You're sure he's still living?

 **DS:** Yes.

 **AL:** Was he William Scully? William Mulder?

 **DS:** Do you really not know the policies or are you assuming I'm stupid and that I don't?

 **AL:** No….no…but if his birth name and adopted name are different –

 **DS:** I know what you're doing. Let's not do that. It's hard enough, you know, to acknowledge what I did…instead of being brave, I gave up. I gave up like a coward. I allowed him to become someone else's. Let them watch him grow, be a part of his memories. I don't want to discuss what might be very personal for him. If there's something you people need to know about him, I'm sure it wouldn't be hard to find him and ask him yourselves.

 **AL:** It would be just as easy for you to find him, too. Wouldn't it?

 **DS:** No. As part of my Sanctuary Agreement with the Union, I have restricted network access. All my travel must be approved a year in advance. I even have limited access to my pension.

 **AL:** Oh. I thought you all were pardoned.

 **DS:** Maybe some were. Not me.

 **AL:** I'm sorry….I…just thought that…I guess we should move on.

 **DS:** Yes. I will tell you though that I didn't just give William over to the system, hoping a nice family would take him in. I did my research first. I didn't want it to be random. So, I tried. I guess.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2001/2002, Dana Scully [year approximate per DS]_

I keep having this dream, not every night, it changes from night to night, just little things, but it's generally the same. I'm on a ledge high up somewhere. Down below me is this caldera filled with the clearest, bluest water I've ever seen. Under the water is everything. Everyone, everything, every emotion I've ever wanted to feel, every place I've ever wanted to be, every wish I've ever had, all swirling and swimming happily below the surface. If I just jump, I can be down in the warm depths with all of it.

But I can't jump.

I'm afraid I'll jump all wrong and land on the rocks surrounding the water, my skull cracking open, my blood dripping down the rocks. I'm afraid it will hurt. Jumping from such a great height, the crash into the water will break something. And so I sit there watching all of it, knowing I could be a part of it if I could only jump. Just shut my eyes, hold my breath, and just do it.

I don't do it. I don't jump. I'm mad at myself when I wake up. Do I need to be pushed? What if someone was there with me? Taking my hand and we made the jump together? There's never anyone there with me. Just me, too scared to take the plunge into happiness and peace.

I think I'm just addicted to chaos. I'm addicted to the unsettling, what's impossibly hard, what's stupidly dangerous. Why else would I continue doing this? Why else would I choose to love someone that will always be out of reach? Too dangerous for me and our son, untouchable, hiding. It's not enough for me. How can this be enough for him?

Maybe that's why I don't jump. I stay on the ledge, contemplating the fall, chickening out, because if I jumped it would mean I'd have to leave him behind.

* * *

 **DS:** I'm not happy with or proud of how I handled things back then. I was doing the best I could, at that time. I didn't tell anyone what I was considering. I just…I did it. Coming home to his crib, taking it apart, little things all strewn around my home to remind me…I shouldn't have been alone. I should have reached out to my mother at the very least, but…the person I wanted with me couldn't be there.

 _[Sounds of DS walking around the room.]_

I needed him there to put his arms around me and hold me together, because I was sure I was going to just break apart. Do you know what that's like? A need unlike any other, worse than needing water or air or sleep; an insatiable _need_ for the other pieces of you that make you whole. That first night, that night, after William was gone, I could feel or sense that my sister, Melissa, was there with me. I don't really know how to put it into words, but it was like she was there, her...like when she was alive and I knew she was in the house without having to see or hear her. Like that. It's like she knew I needed someone right then, and she was reaching out from wherever she is. I've never told anyone that before. Not even Mulder.

 **AL:** Did you tell Mulder about William…when you, when he was adopted?

 **DS:** Yes. Except I couldn't tell him face to face. It was the worst, having to send him a message, not knowing when or if he would see it. Waiting. I didn't know how he'd handle it. I know we've talked about this before, about if he knew. I don't want to speculate on what he did or didn't know because he's not here to tell his own story, but he wasn't a stupid man. It wasn't hard to figure out.

 _[Long pause.]_

Whoever gets to read or hear these recordings might judge me harshly for doing what I did. Not telling or even asking his father. There were people after Mulder. And our son. Except they weren't people…they were, they were something else. And I had to balance all that, alone, with some help, but mostly alone. My mother almost died because of it.

 **AL:** How?

 **DS:** Can we, can we take a break? Is it alright to do that?

 **AL:** Sure.

 _[Recording paused. 1:39pm.]_

* * *

 _Letter to Dana Scully from William F. [redacted], Handwritten on paper converted digitally, 2032._

 _Used with permission, DS Sanctuary Agreement, Clause 4._

Emily,

When/if she agrees to see you, please give her this.

Te amo con todo mi corazòn,

William

Ms. Dana Scully:

I am your son, William. If you need proof, I can provide it. Please let me say first that I do not hate you, nor do I question your reasons. As you can imagine the story of how I found you and my father is long and arduous. I want to see you and my father and tell you both, but only at your will. I cannot imagine what this news will make you feel, but I hope you will see me. There is so much I want to say to you both.

I also want to tell you how I found the woman you are meeting. She is your daughter, and my half-sister, Emily. I found her three years ago in Honduras. She has been speaking Spanish for the last 28 years, and she is re-learning English. Please be patient with her if she cannot answer all your questions.

Emily can tell you how to contact me, if it is your wish, which I hope for very much.

Your son,

William


	5. Chapter 5

William walked into the hospital, past screaming babies and coughing fits to the front desk. The man behind it didn't speak English. He motioned towards a woman, who told William to go down the hall and to the left.

William approached another desk. Behind a tall stack of folders he could hear clicking on a keyboard. There was a sign upon the wall with her name, Dr. Emily Guiterrez. That was when it hit him; when exhaustion and anticipation collided, making him feel dizzy. He slowed to a stop when a head peeked out from behind the files. A head with long hair, the color of a new, shiny copper penny. She wore cheap reading glasses, one of the ear pieces broken and taped back together. She said something to him in Spanish that he wouldn't remember later.

He just stopped and stared. He said nothing. He couldn't speak. He hadn't really prepared what to say or how to say it. When he saw her face, he remembered all those dreams as a little boy. The one where he watched a tiny hand dip into a pool of clear water, a strand of copper hair slipping into view. A silver crucifix spinning on a wall. Waking up in the middle of the night, praying in Spanish, then covering his mouth out of fear that he was possessed. He knew then that none of those were dreams.

Emily stood up, taking off her glasses and tucking them neatly in the pocket of her off-white lab coat. "Señor?"

William asked her if she spoke English. She shook her head, then gestured for him to wait there while she went through a door behind her. She brought back a Caucasian man whose accent sounded Australian.

"Do you need help, sir?" He asked.

William looked into Emily's soft blue eyes, searching for recognition.

"Do you need medical attention?" The Australian man asked.

"No," William replied. "I'm here to see her."

The Australian man translated to Emily.

"Are you a patient of hers?"

William hesitated. "I'm her brother."

It came out too loud and too clear as if it was the loudest thing anyone had ever said in that hospital. William moved forward slowly. He silenced his mind, slowed his breathing, and went to the place where he'd always found her. A place in his head, like a waiting room, with no language, no voices; feeling for each other rippling through the air in pitch darkness, they'd met there many times before.

"You know who I am," William whispered. He could feel she was there, too. Her palm flat, fingers splayed as she reached out towards him in that dark and quiet place in his mind. "And you know what we are."

* * *

 _[Recording resumed 1:54pm]_

 **DS:** And, well, you know….we had to maintain our fitness…

 **AL:** I've started it back again…

 **DS:** Oh. Do you want me to start over again?

 **AL:** No. I want to go back to William, though. When was the last time you saw him?

 _[Long silence]_

 **AL:** Dana, it's not –

 **DS:** I know. I'm thinking about whether I should lie to you or tell you the truth.

 **AL:** …I would hope…the truth?

 **DS:** I don't like the truth.

 _[Another long silence. Some outside noises and shuffling.]_

 **DS:** Six years ago.

 **AL:** What? The last time you saw William was six years ago?

 **DS:** Yes.

 **AL:** What…so you found him?

 **DS:** No. He found me. He found _us—_ Mulder and I. I'm skipping things again. It's just easier to skip over the parts you don't like, isn't it? We have a very…strained relationship now, my son and I, so that's why I haven't seen him in six years.

 **AL:** He found you six years ago?

 **DS:** No. He found us about thirty-some years ago. Mulder and I didn't discuss it much, but any child of ours would figure it all out and find us eventually. It was just inevitable. After I gave him up, I was afraid of when I would see him again, because I was going to. He was safe, he would live, and I would see him again. I knew it for absolute fact. But when and under what circumstances was frightening.

* * *

 _Private electronic journal entry c. 2026 [date approximate per DS]_

I can't sleep. Mulder left some time ago to drive around, I guess. He's angry with me, I think. We can't sleep. It's funny to think about the days or hours before your life changes drastically. It just happens, out of nowhere, no warning. Well, I can't say that I don't deserve this or I didn't expect it one day…

He was right here. Sitting in our home, on our furniture…my son. _My_ son. _Our_ son. And he wasn't alone… _she_ was with him! Mulder and I have already had our prerequisite argument about whether or not I believe it's really William and Emily. I'm tired of believing and not believing anything. I'm tired of being accused. We sat there together like we had in the old days, our Agent Faces on, exchanging looks, as William and Emily told us their respective stories. He told us he knew he was adopted, found us through the DNA Archives during the fall of the Old Republic. Every database that had ever existed left unguarded could reveal anything private to anyone, while the NAU scrambled to shut all the virtual doors and create windows instead. It had been a mess, but he'd seen a "possible match" in the DNA Archives – a half-sister. Or rather a one-quarter sister. He told us it was as if Emily had one mother, me, and two fathers. I knew what he was saying went against laws of genetics, but I've seen things that go against all laws of nature and the Universe. How is it I can still be shocked after all I've seen?

Emily explained to us, in very broken English, sometimes clarified by William, that she didn't remember anything before Barbados. That was where she'd been found by a group of Dominican nuns; she eventually settled with them in Honduras. I nearly started sobbing uncontrollably when she said she studied medicine to give the sisters the medical care they desperately needed as they aged. My Emily is a doctor after all…I squeezed Mulder's hand too tight as I tried to think of how she could have gotten to Barbados. Did they just dump her there? Had they put her on a boat and smuggled her in, not giving a shit where she ended up afterwards? I squeezed his hand so hard he grunted with pain. It made me angry, but….there was something…was there something wrong with her? Just in how she was with us. Is there something wrong with her? I really feel like there's something wrong with her, but I can't place it yet.

Mulder and I fought over her later, not William. I believe he's William, our son. How could I not after seeing him today? Seeing him talk, his gestures, his smiles, his expressions. I know what it is now to be a mother looking at her child and seeing something familiar, something only a mother and a child can share. Only for me I didn't get those moments of pride and love bit by bit over time; I got them all at once in one afternoon. I could see us in him. There was me when he would tilt his head one way, Mulder when he smiled or looked thoughtful. Brief seconds of emotion passing quickly across his face; I needed to slow time down so I could map myself and Mulder in each micro-expression, catch up on all I have missed.

But her….I didn't tell him what I saw. Maybe he saw it, too. It's harder with her because I saw her die. She was – in every way, shape, and form known to us – dead. Mulder said I'd also seen him dead, but he'd come back to life. Wasn't it possible for her, too? The answer is simple for him: be a family. Right now. Get back all the years lost forever and be a family. Now. Nothing from before matters.

I was watching William's face as he talked to Mulder and me. His eyes are blue. His hair came in light when he was a baby, but now it's dark like his father's. I noticed all of this. I noticed his hand sliding over Emily's hand, fingers entwined with hers. It was an unconscious gesture. It was an intimate gesture. It made me feel something I didn't like. I stopped listening to them talk, just blocked out the sound, and tried to deconstruct what was between them, left unsaid, but still hanging in this house even now. William said he found us as the Old Republic fell apart, and the NAU restored order three years ago this month. Where have they been the last three years? What have they been doing? They could have come to us much sooner, and why haven't they?

* * *

"Aunt Emily, will you braid my hair?" Tamryn sat on Emily's lap, leaving Timothy to battle zombie-aliens in their game alone.

"Of course. Hold still now."

William sat down next to them, watching for a minute. "Did you see it?"

"Yes. I read it." Decades out of Honduras and Emily's accent was still thick. She still rattled off in Spanish from time to time, mostly because she knew it irritated him. "They're just sending that silly girl out into the wilderness to antagonize her."

"Maybe," William said slowly. He watched Emily's fingers folding locks of Tamryn's strawberry blonde hair into a neat Dutch braid. "You think everyone will come later? Everyone knows it's important, right? To have the family together."

"Everyone but Esther, and," she mouthed the name silently to William, "Mary."

Tamryn, forever curious and never fooled, turned to look at them.

"Turn round. The braid will be crooked," Emily said. Tamryn obeyed.

"They all have to be here," William said firmly. "Everyone. Let's get it all out in the open at last if we need to. But everyone has to be here. It's family time."

"What do you want me to do about it?" Emily wrapped a hair tie around Tamryn's hair and gently pushed her off her lap. "I can't make anyone do anything. That's what happens when they grow up. Esther is your daughter, and Mary—"

They both glanced cautiously at the children. Both of them had turned away from the game, listening in.

"Go outside," Emily said.

"What about Aunt Esther?" Timothy asked.

"Go outside!" William repeated. "Here's a new game." He tossed them a tiny memory disk. "Go learn it and I'll be out to score you later." Tamryn and Timothy scrambled outside, already fighting over who would begin.

William moved closer to Emily, taking her hand in both of his. In all the seconds that made up their lives thus far, it was the ones where they were alone that seemed to last the longest, to pause unforgivingly, a zooming microscope coming in at them from space, to examine and critique. They sat in silence for a minute or two, a heavy shame sinking over them, as they found each other in the "Waiting Room," just for reassurance.

"If you ask Mary to come," William said quietly, slowly, "then she will come. She will always do what you ask her to do, and she will always ignore what I ask. It's how she is. We know this. If Mary comes, Esther will come, too."

Emily nodded. She knew he was right.

William gently turned her chin so he could look at her, in her eyes. "Okay?"

"Yes," Emily said. "Okay."


	6. Chapter 6

**DS:** He just showed back up. All grown up. His voice was all changed and deep, he had stubble on his chin and neck, and his hands were –

 **AL:** So, did he message you, call you?

 **DS:** No, he sent a letter. And then…he was just there. It's really silly, but I was jealous that he looked more like Mulder than me. Isn't that stupid? I didn't think it was fair; I carried him around, gave birth to him, and tried to care for him on my own, but he was his father through and through. I don't know. Mulder said he looked like me mostly, except for his hair and his chin. It's amazing, really. To see yourself in another person, you and someone you love, what you created together. All you can do is love them. No matter what they do or what they've done…

 **AL:** He contacted you six years ago?

 **DS:** Yeah. His grandchildren had just been born. Twins. I'm a great-grandmother _[soft laughter]_.

 **AL:** Did you contact him back?

 **DS:** No….or maybe I did. I think I sent him something like "congratulations," but nothing more.

 **AL:** And your grandchild or grandchildren?

 **DS:** Triplets. There was one boy. The twins are his.

 **AL:** Do you speak to them at all?

 **DS:** No. No one contacts me. I imagine they've all forgotten about me by now. Out of sight, out of mind.

 _[Long silence]_

 **AL:** I'm so sorry, Dana.

 _[Silence. Sounds of DS getting up and walking into the kitchen.]_

 **DS:** Do you want more coffee?

 **AL:** No, thank you. I would like some water though.

 **DS:** _[from the kitchen, muffled]_

 **AL:** I'm sorry, Dana?

 _[Sounds of DS walking back into the room, sitting down.]_

 **DS:** I said, you were right.

 **AL:** About what?

 **DS:** There was another child….is.

 _[More silence. AL's phone chimes.]_

 **DS:** When all this is done, and it's up on the repository, my son, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren, and so on, are going to listen to this. My daughter will, too. It's important to me that I don't leave them thinking I left them out or forgot about them. They can forget about me, but I don't want them to believe I have as well. That's more important to me than trying to leave out my mistakes, to create some perfect narrative of a perfect woman. People always said to me, as I'm sure they've said to you, life is short. But it isn't. Life is long. It's plenty of time to screw everything up, and only sometimes there's enough time to fix it.

* * *

The video call connected, but only the audio was on.

"Spender," came the answer.

"Sam, its Gene. Gene Wells."

The video blinked into focus. "Hello, Gene!" Samuel Spender smiled bright, white teeth on the screen. "Sorry, I just answer it sometimes without seeing who it is. Easier just to keep the video turned off. What's up?"

"I'm sending you something….right….now." Dr. Wells tapped the screen of his phone.

"Okay." Sam picked up his phone, swiping through with his thumb. "Is this…a Bible verse?"

"No. Well, it's mimicking biblical genealogy verses – the whole family is a bunch of fanatics - but no it's not an actual Bible verse."

Sam stared at his phone for a few minutes. "Okay, so this is what I'm seeing: 'Dana and Fox begat William; William and Madison begat Ephriam, Esther, and Eve; Ephriam and Sophia begat Tamryn and Timothy; Eve and Aiden begat'…then there's just like a blank. What is this?"

"Eve is pregnant," Dr. Wells said, his voice small.

"Oh, is she? With Cain? With Abel? No, what is _this_ ," he gestured at his phone. "We already know this. This doesn't help."

Dr. Wells ground his teeth. He could feel his jaw tightening. "Well, there are no surnames, so we can just uploaded it directly to the repository."

"Where did you get this?"

"From my interviewer."

"Okay," Sam sat forward in his chair, pointing to his phone. "There's another lineage here. That's what we need. We don't need what we already know, what's already public record. We need what's behind this."

Dr. Wells had been proud of Anne. She'd brought the family tree, scribbled on notebook paper, directly from Dana Scully herself. Now, he felt like he'd been tricked or Anne was just stupid.

"Gene," Sam sat his phone down, placing both hands in front of him, annoyingly enunciating each word. "This is a very dangerous lineage. We need names, birthdates. We need proof of something, something to follow."

Dr. Wells nodded. "Well, that's all she gave me. I thought it would be sufficient."

Sam was looking at his phone again. "Hm. It's handwritten?"

"Yeah."

Sam scrolled through his phone, looking thoughtful. "The handwriting doesn't match Dana Scully's. Or Anne's. Or yours."

Dr. Wells' ears burned at the insult.

"But maybe," Sam began clicking things over to his monitor so Dr. Wells could see. "Nope. It's not William's either. Hm. Who do you think wrote this?"

"I don't know. I assumed Dana Scully."

"Huh." Sam sat back in his chair. "I think we need to give your interviewer another assignment. She can continue with Scully, too. I'll arrange it and contact you soon. Bye, Gene."

The screen went black. Dr. Wells checked to see the audio was off before mumbling "Dick."

* * *

 _[Private electronic journal entry, c. May 2026, Dana Scully]_

Mulder and I were in bed this morning talking through what to do. How to handle all this. We planned that tomorrow I'd spend the day with Emily and he'd spend the day with William. Maybe see how they are with us individually. As an afterthought, I said maybe the next day I could spend the day with William and I started to say Mulder could spend it with Emily, but I stopped.

"What?" He asked, curling up behind me, his chin on my shoulder. I never get tired of that.

"Never mind. She doesn't…I don't think she remembers you, and it's not like she's a part of you."

"No. But she's a part of you." He pulled me closer. "Maybe she needs a father figure, don't you think?"

I told him I didn't want him to feel obligated or anything, but really I guess I'd expected him to embrace Emily as much as William.

"I've always wanted a daughter," he said. "And the fact that she's yours makes it all the better."

I felt my face flush, warmth spreading up from my stomach. Sometimes he can still say things that make me love him more. There are times when I think those days are behind us, and we'll just be boring, outlaw retirees; all the angst, the mess, all of it over. But it never will be, will it? We will never be boring.

He gently turned me over on my back. "I'd raise a monkey with you, Scully."

"Hm. An alien?"

"Sure. I'd have hundreds of your progeny." He kissed down my neck.

"Mulder, I can't anymore…"

"Doesn't mean we can't try…"

"Mulder…"

It wasn't that I didn't want sex. I suppose it was the fact that it's really over for me. I don't like to think about it. I can't have any more children. I still get a menstrual cycle every now and then, it's unusual, but not unheard of. I look in the mirror, and I don't see where I've changed much. Are alien abductions fountains of youth? But still...have we really gotten so old? So soon?

* * *

William stayed in Honduras for 18 months.

He ran out of money, renewed his Travel Status seven times, stumbled through Spanish, and sweated through a Honduran summer. But it was all worth it because Emily would come back with him to the NAU.

"My family…adopted family have a house in the mountains." He told her.

"What will we…," she searched for the right word, miming with her hands counting currency.

"I have a position in the Council. With my father…adopted father."

"What about me?"

"You can do anything you want."

"Oh."

He could feel her disappointment, her sadness "We'll need to find our mother, of course."

"I thought you found her."

"I don't know where she lives. We can find her together."

Emily wanted to see their mother, but she loved the sisters that had cared for her almost all her life. William could feel how hard the choice was for her, but he knew they could never be separated again. The bond between them had grown significantly.

In the beginning, as they first learned about each other, William set a coffee mug on a table and moved it telepathically in figure eights. He handed Emily the mug. "Can you do that, too?"

Emily set the mug down, then got another one, placed them on the table, and moved them both in figure eights. Then, just to show off, she moved one mug in figure eights and one in squares, like a piano player playing different keys with each hand.

"Oh," William said, his face burning. "I guess you can."

Emily smiled. "Sister Consuela saw me move blankets. She was not angry. She was not scared. She sat me down and told me that God gave me gift. I must pray every day to the Holy Virgin and Our Savior, thank them, and to ask only use my gift for their glory. Not vanity. Not evil."

"Were you being vain or evil just now?" William asked.

"Vain. I'm better than you!" She laughed.

A few months later, they went out of the city to Copán. They wandered around the ruins of the ancient Mayan city, when William noticed a stone bench etched with weathered figures.

He gestured towards it. "Do you think we can move it?

"Why?" She asked, puzzled.

He shrugged. "Just to see if we can do it."

Emily looked around warily.

"Sister Consuela isn't here." William held out his hand.

She smirked at him and took his hand.

"I think we should try doing it how we normally would. See if it's enough."

They stood very still, hand in hand, breathing deeply until the wave of energy pulsated up their spines, crackling over their skulls.

But nothing happened.

Not even a slight tremble.

"I think we are doing it wrong," Emily said. "How were you trying?"

"To lift it up. Up off the ground."

"No. I think it's too much. I think we need to turn it." She mimed with her hand. "On a side. Focus there." She pointed to the left corner.

They tried again, this time the bench wiggled and jerked to one side as if someone had shoved it back. Emily squeezed William's hand as the bench tipped on its side like a drunken elephant.

Emily turned to William, her smile triumphant. "See? Easy first."

William smiled back, but his face began to burn with the knowledge that she could see inside him in that moment, feel him. Much too far inside. Her smile faded. They were translucent to one another. Sometimes it was like all the windows flung open at once in a house. Sometimes it was like a feeling, nesting itself deep inside them, burrowing in and folding in on itself. Emily let go of his hand, their palms were pinkish red like a sunburn. They stood there for a long time, looking at one another, sitting silently together in the Waiting Room. They were still and quiet, like all the other stones in a garden of ruins.

"I love you so much…," the words tumbled from William's mouth, unchecked. He didn't really need to say it.

They rode back to the city in outward silence, but inwardly they hummed with noise. William drove with one hand, the other clenched into a fist on his lap. Emily reached for his hand, his palm unfolding as she slid her fingers through his.

Later, in Emily's rooms above the convent, William lay in his tiny cot. He listened to Emily pray; the clipped, liturgical words in Spanish. He'd grown used to their hypnotic quality, often lulling him to sleep. But, right then, William hoped more than anything that she was deep into her conversation with God. That way she could not see the depths of his heart as it swelled into a painful amalgamation of love, of shame, and of yearning.


	7. Chapter 7

_Private Electronic Journal entry, c. October 1997, Dana Scully_

I just had another dream, a nightmare, about Emily. When are they going to stop? I'll probably have them for the rest of my life. And all because I couldn't save her. Is it always going to haunt me? Even when I'm distracted, other things going on, it still finds a way to take me away from the present and remind me how I failed.

She was mine. My daughter. I was denied the right to carry her in me, give birth to her, and nurse her. My ability to be a mother, what makes me female, my reproductive imperative, was taken away. Then there was this hope with her…that it was all still possible. In a strange way, in an abnormal way, but still a way.

In my dreams, she's lost. She's always lost, wandering around in the woods, in a field, in a building with endless hallways. I go to find her. I panic because I can hear her crying. But each time I find her, it's like she can't find me. She can't see me. I'm on the other side of a tree, looking through a window, calling for her, telling her that I'm here, but she can't hear me and she can't see me. I kick down doors, break windows, and tear through branches in frustration and desperation, but she can't hear me and she can't see me. I scream at the top of my lungs, the sound ripping out of my throat, but she can't hear me and she can't see me. She wanders further and further away, crying louder, her fear growing to an unbearable level. I wake up, my heart pounding. There's no one here but me. I am alone in this turmoil.

I thought about calling Mulder. He's the first person I think about, as if he'll be able to comfort me. But he won't. Not in the way that I need. I know that he would answer and be here within minutes, but after he got here, then what? Would I break down in front of him, and let him hold me until I stopped? Would I be able to admit that this has fucked with my head more than he knows? I feel like I'll reveal too much, and it will change things between us. He'll be too careful with me, too delicate, choosing not to pursue certain cases all because of me and my inability to cope. No. I can't. I am alone, like Emily; no one can hear me and no one can see me.

* * *

 **AL:** So, you had a daughter.

 **DS:** Yes. Are you happy now, Anne?

 **AL:** No….I…

 **DS:** She, um…I found her when she was an orphan. Such a quiet and serious little girl. She was sick, and I tried to save her. I failed, or at least I thought I'd failed, and she died. Only she didn't actually die.

 **AL:** What was wrong with her?

 **DS:** It's complicated. She didn't actually die, though. What I told you about William, finding us? Emily was with him.

 **AL:** Is Mulder her father, too?

 **DS:** No. She has no father. She was born in a lab. She was a…science experiment. One that presumably failed, so they just dumped her off on an island and left her there to fend for herself. But she ended up having a good life. Well, good compared to how it started out. Some nuns found her, took her in, and raised her. When I saw her, she was kind of like nun herself. God…I really couldn't believe she was mine. Her beauty was so disarming, but she was completely unaware of it. When she and William came to see Mulder and I, she was very quiet, very cerebral. Mostly because she wasn't fluent in English yet. She'd been raised by Dominican nuns. She didn't remember anything from before. She said she didn't really remember me, but she'd had dreams about a woman that looked like me.

 **AL:** Where is she now?

 **DS:** I'm not sure.

 **AL:** Have you lost contact with her as well?

 **DS:** Yes.

 **AL:** I know it might be hard for you, but can you tell me what happened between you and her? You and William?

 _[Silence for a few minutes]_

 **DS:** Are you sure you want the burden of this knowledge?

 **AL:** Yes. I mean…I think so…I don't know? What do you mean burden?

 **DS:** I'll tell you.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal entry, c. June 2000, Dana Scully_

I tried to write in here earlier, but when I got out of bed I woke up Mulder. I didn't want him to see me writing or hear the keyboard clicking. He asked me to come back to bed. I didn't tell him that I'd just had another Emily dream. I was too afraid to go back to sleep again.

It's strange. I can be intimate with him, let him inside me, let him touch every part of me, all the while knowing that he's just as vulnerable during those moments as me, but…I can't tell him about this. I've always looked at the person I was with as someone I could tell anything to. What reason would I have to be so guarded? But this is different. When we are together, making love, he has everything. He has all of me. I have all of him. I can feel myself unfolding, unwinding, and unwrapping. I can feel myself taking and giving all at once. There have been times when it's been too much, it makes me turn my head, close my eyes. But he will gently turn me back to him, holding my gaze, cushioning my fragile heart with all his love.

It is the most intimate any two people can be, but I can't tell him my dreams. I can't tell him that I see Emily in other red-headed little girls. I see her lost in the woods. I still see her sick and dying. It seems like it's been too long since we last talked about her. So long, in fact, that if I brought it up now it would show him that I never moved past it. I never forgave that time and left it where it was. Maybe I just want something that I can keep to myself. I feel like it's a wound that has plunged so deeply into my heart that even he and all his love can't heal it.

* * *

It took them a total of two weeks to leave Honduras and arrive in their new home. Although the NAU had swallowed up the Caribbean and was slowly encroaching on Central America, Emily was still considered a foreign national from a hostile nation. Therefore, she was banned from air travel into the Union, and would have been banned from entry completely if she wasn't accompanied by a citizen.

When they crossed the border, they spent several days in limbo as Emily was examined by two physicians, her financial and criminal records checked, and then had a chip inserted into her hand that would dissolve after about a month. By then, after tracking her, the Union would allow her to apply for probationary citizenship.

They traveled by rail into what was now the North Region. William noticed that state border signs had all been taken down. There was no use for them anymore. Once at the regional border, Emily was detained again, examined again, had her fingers scanned, and provided a hair sample. When they arrived home, they were thoroughly exhausted.

The family house was in the ruins of an old ski resort, a modern structure with sharp angles and oversized windows. Emily had noticed the family pictures on the walls almost immediately.

"Are they the ones that raised you?" She asked.

"Yes," William answered, stepping closer to the photographs.

"Will they be here?"

"No. This was our vacation home. We came here when I was little to go skiing." William could still remember his exasperated mother, coaxing him to play outside when all he wanted was his Xbox. "My adopted father lives just a few miles away. My adopted mother is in Massachusetts. Well…the East Region now."

"They are not together?"

"No. They divorced when I was ten." William looked around the house. He'd loved how big and spacious it was as a little boy, but now it seemed empty and somber; no longer the relaxing destination of a happy family. Their voices, excited and laughing. The cold nights with the fireplace and Disney movies. William felt an ache of nostalgia for that past life.

"You're sad," Emily frowned. "This was a happy place for you once."

"It was. I think my dad may come visit. I doubt my mother will. I'm still not sure what to call them now, either."

Emily nodded and looked around. They both were beginning to realize that they would be completely alone here. Perhaps it had not been a good idea.

"There are three bedrooms," William said, blushing because 'bedroom' seemed like an illicit word just then. "The one down here is nice. There's a bathroom connected to it."

Emily nodded again, her faced had also turned a light shade of pink. They stood there for a few minutes looking at each other, awkwardly, as the implication of their isolation settled in.

"I think I may read for a while and then to sleep," Emily said.

"Of course. It's been quite an ordeal."

Much later that night, William sat alone in front of the fireplace. It had taken him a couple of tries to start one as he hadn't really remembered how his parents had done it. He'd found a dusty bottle of bourbon in a cabinet. He drank one glass, then another, and he was working on his third when he felt a thick cloud of depression sink into him. He thought about Emily again and the fact that they were no longer surrounded by nuns. He thought about her after her shower in the evenings, when she smelled of warm lavender, entwining locks of her hair into elaborate, medieval-looking braids. He thought about her quiet conversations with one of the sisters in Spanish. Sometimes he could pick up on what she was saying. When he listened to her prayers he could hear his name, which usually came after a phrase of blessing and gratitude. He thought about all the times they would both look up from what they were doing at each other at the same time, for absolutely no reason, then slowly look away.

He stared into the fire, the bourbon making him feel heavy. They never acknowledged what happened at Copán again. They continued about their days, not really treating one another differently. But now…he was depressed over how this would be typical of most nights: Emily going to bed alone while William sat awake, drinking himself numb. William leaned forward, putting his face in his hands. He didn't think he could bear it - night, after night, after night of this suspension. Why did he feel this way? Why couldn't he just shut it off like a light switch? He began to wonder if it was a flaw of their kind, a genetic predisposition. He could see and feel that she loved him, too, but she was more reserved than him. It didn't seem to be affecting her as much. Perhaps it was her upbringing; the pious and self-sacrificing nature of convent life.

And the things they were able to do with their abilities now...it seemed as if the stronger and deeper their bond was, the more powerful they became. Before they left, they had pulled an ancient and rotting jeep, all covered with vines, from a mud pit on the side of the road. It had taken very little effort at all. They had stood there hand in hand as they pulled it from the mud, it made a sucking sound as it came unstuck. One of them "pushed" and the other "pulled" until the jeep was flat on the road. They had smiled at one another, proud and amazed at what they could do.

How could he not love her?

William heard a sound next to him, and looked up to see Emily standing there.

"What are you doing up?" He asked. He hoped he didn't sound intoxicated.

"I can hear you," she said, sitting down next to him.

Ah. Of course she could. All the barriers set up in his mind floated away in a sea of bourbon. He pushed his half-empty glass away from him.

William sank deeper into the couch. "I'm sorry."

He could sense her hesitation, trying to form a thought into words.

"It is not only you," she said. "I think about you, too."

Her words floated between them as they sat in silence for a few minutes. Still staring straight ahead into the fire, William reached out for her. She took his hand, staring into the fire as well.

"Do you know what we are?" She asked.

William considered for a moment. "We are what everyone will be a thousand years from now."

"Do your parents know? The ones who adopted you?"

"I don't know. If they do, they've never said so." William remembered incidents as a child, when he would become frustrated or upset and all the mirrors in the house would crack. He remembered temper tantrums as a toddler and his mother finding glassware shattered in the kitchen cabinets. He'd learned to control it soon enough, but there were always times when he couldn't.

"You told me about Sister Consuela, but did the rest of them know?"

Emily sighed, thinking. "Sister Louisa died when I was little. She had been especially kind to me. I was distraught. During her funeral service, I could not stop crying. All the candles in the sanctuary burned up in a matter of minutes. One of the windows broke. I knew that I had done it, but I don't know how they explained it to themselves. I never told them." She could still remember the wave of heat from the candles brushing against her tear-stained cheeks.

They sat quietly, each silently going through incidents in their childhood when their abilities had gotten out of their control. They seemed to be linked strongly to their emotions.

"I wish we had been together back then," William whispered, turning to look at her.

"Me, too," Emily said softly, returning his gaze.

Without thinking, and perhaps assisted by the liquor, William pulled Emily close to him. She didn't resist. He pulled her closer, their faces only inches apart. They searched each other's eyes, knowing what was about to happen, but needing reassurance. They leaned in, closer, closer, and closer still until their lips met, slowly cautiously. Then Williams's arms were around her, pulling her against him, kissing her deeply. Something broke inside them just then, releasing a liquid warmth that enveloped them both. They were bound to each other then, a bind that would never and could never break once the line was crossed.

It ends and it begins; they would not be able to stop it now.

* * *

 **Anne Link Interview with William Fox Scully Mulder**

 **For the Retired NAU Employee Archive: The 40** **th** **Anniversary**

 **Anne Link:** Thank you for taking time to do this. Now, I have to ask for your permission for each recording. Do I have your permission to record this interview?

 **William Mulder:** Yes. I'm still not sure what this is for?

 **AL:** It's what we discussed earlier. The Union wants to post some interviews with retirees for the 40th anniversary.

 **WM:** Has it been that long already?

 **AL:** Indeed it has. So, for my notes, can I have your full name?

 **WM:** My birth name was William Fox Scully. My adopted name, William Fox Holdren. My full legal name is William Fox Scully Mulder. I'm not sure which one you want to use.

 **AL:** We'll go with your legal name.

 **WM:** That's fine.

 **AL:** Okay. So, I thought we'd start out with some basic background questions, then proceed into your time in the Council. That's my basic plan, and, of course, if we digress it's perfectly okay.

 **WM:** Sounds good.

 **AL:** Okay. Shall we begin?


	8. Chapter 8

**DS:** William and Emily…it's very jarring to remember your children as babies, then suddenly see them grown up. We'd missed so much, Mulder and I. They were fully realized adults, with a past, with fears, with a whole collection of memories that I was not a part of. That in itself was painful to think about. All the what ifs….what if I'd kept William? What if I'd searched for Emily? You don't have children, do you, Anne?

 **AL:** No.

 **DS:** I see. I guess it's hard for you to empathize, but they were, and are, my children. My own flesh and blood. I tried to love them, no matter what, and was ready to forgive them of their faults if only to keep them in my life. But some things…

 _[Pause. Sounds of DS walking around the room.]_

William and Emily met each other three years before they met with us. That in itself was problematic for me. Mulder and I were sanctuary citizens; we have no privacy, like any and all treasonous or rebellious Old Republicans. All our information was listed in the registry. It still is. Mulder passed over twenty years ago, and it's still there. Everything about us from our blood type to identifying marks on our bodies. There's even an image of my tattoo with my entry.

 **AL:** You have a tattoo?

 **DS:** Yeah. I thought they were supposed to fade over time, but mine never has. It's on my back. Anyway, I couldn't understand what took them so long. They told us how difficult it was to get Emily into the country, but…I don't know. There were other things, too. Emily seemed so…I felt like there was something between them and there was something particularly wrong with her, but I couldn't place it. I just had this feeling. Of dread. Of something not right. The way they were together. I kept pushing it out my mind and just tried to be a family. We were all together, so why screw that all up? Why bring up any bad feelings?

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal entry, c. 2026, Dana Scully_

We are a family now.

I spent all day with my daughter, and Mulder took William to a baseball game. I told Mulder that William might not even like baseball.

"My dad took me all the time. It's a father and son thing," he said before William arrived. "The game doesn't really matter, it's the time together. I mean, don't mothers and daughters have a thing? Besides if he's any son of mine, he _will_ like baseball."

I like seeing him like this; full of energy, of purpose. I guess it doesn't matter what we all do together as long as we are together. Emily and I stayed here, talked for a while. I showed her pictures of my mother, and father, and some of Melissa. She was reserved most of the time, and I suppose it's the language barrier. She said she had been ill recently. She still wasn't used to the change in climate. Admittedly, the long silences between us were uncomfortable. What do you talk about with a daughter that doesn't even remember you? Nonetheless, I'm proud because she's very much like me – Catholic, a doctor. She has done well in her life.

I think I'll stay at home with William tomorrow, too. I told Mulder not to take Emily to a baseball game. Maybe they could go have coffee somewhere, go for a walk. He's nervous about it, I think. When he and William came home, they were best friends. Mulder's hand on William's shoulder, giving his son advice. The four of us had dinner and sat around together in the evening. Like a family. Like we'd always been this way.

Sometimes Emily and William look at each other, long glances that seem to be filled with something Mulder and I can't see. Does he notice it, too? I don't like how it makes me feel. I haven't said anything to Mulder about it, because what's the point? We're a family now. Right now. Isn't that all that matters?

* * *

Fall, winter, and spring.

All the seasons blurred together, because they were together. There was nothing else, there was no one else. They tumbled down, down, down into that liquid warmth, letting it course through their veins, letting the current drag them under.

After that first time, William and Emily looked away from each other, embarrassed, ashamed. It was as if the oversized windows were screens that everyone in the world watched them from, jeering, judging, and joking. They covered up their nakedness, like Adam and Eve; they covered up their hearts, they put up barriers, pulled down shades.

But it did not last long.

They returned to each other, again and again, clinging to one another, opening up, dams breaking into waterfalls that roared to life. Penetrating gazes as they loved each other, tangled limbs, breathless whispers. At the height of their passion they thought of nothing else; no one else existed. But afterwards…they wondered why they couldn't stop. After the climax ebbed from their bodies, it was only then that they worried about what they were doing. Reality gripping them like cold hands.

William sat in Council meetings, trying to rationalize it away. They're not really brother and sister, he told himself. Half-siblings. Not even that. People married their cousins in previous centuries, and that was okay, he nodded to himself. Why not this? It was okay. This wasn't wrong, he nodded at his private thoughts until he noticed another Council member staring at him, bringing him back into the present. Oh God, could they all see it? Was it written all over him?

She was the only person like him in the whole world; they were the same. How could they not need each other? Isn't that how it's supposed to work in nature? The desire for your own kind? Only they were not products of the natural world. Whatever was in them, whatever they had come from, was synthetic. Perhaps it was not of this world at all.

In the spring, William came home to find Emily had been crying. She looked as if she'd been out for a long walk or run, tendrils of her coppery hair clung to the perspiration on her neck. She was still breathing hard.

"What is it?" William asked, sitting down next to her.

Her chin trembled. She looked down, trying to compose herself. "William…."

But then he could see it, he could feel it already.

"Oh God…," he said.

"Yes…"

"We're going to…"

"Yes…," she held up the positive pregnancy test as material proof.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, turned away from each other. Should they be happy? Should they be horrified? William felt guilty because he wasn't horrified; he was pleased. After all, it was a life created out of love.

"I think we should find our mother," Emily said. "She needs to see us, to know us, before..."

William took her in his arms. "Everything's okay. Everything will work out. We're together. We can all still be a family. That's all that matters."

* * *

 **AL:** Where were you born?

 **WM:** The capitol of the former United States, Washington, D.C.

 **AL:** I understand your birth parents are former Old Republic employees, Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. They were in the FBI together?

 **WM:** Yes. I was 25 when I first met them.

 **AL:** You have a sister, too? Emily?

 **WM:** Yes.

 **AL:** Older or younger?

 **WM:** Older. She was born before the Millennium.

 **AL:** Tell me a little about your family.

 **WM:** I'm not sure what this has to do with my time in the Council.

 **AL:** It's just some basic background stuff.

 **WM:** Okay. Well, I met my wife, Madison, in the Council. She was in a different division. We married after about six months. We had three children, triplets, one boy and two girls.

 **AL:** Oh my.

 **WM:** Yes, multiple births run in our family. My grandchildren are twins. We just found out my daughter, Eve, is also expecting twins. Two boys we think.

 **AL:** That's very unusual, isn't it? To have that many sets of twins so close together?

 **WM:** I don't know…I mean, reproductive medicine has come a long way…what does it matter?

 **AL:** I don't know. I just…thought it was interesting. You and your wife, you both lived in the North Region, then relocated to the East?

 **WM:** Yes. But…well, we separated shortly after that, and she went back to the North. We're still legally married, but…well, we were both very young when we married. Young and foolish, you know. It's the typical story.

 **AL:** Can you elaborate?

 **WM:** No. I'd rather not discuss it any further.

* * *

William walked around the house, looking at everyone as they did their work. There was Ephraim and Aidan boarding up the windows. There was Eve, Emily, and Sophia talking quietly in the dining room as they wrapped up mirrors, glasses, and unscrewed all the light bulbs. There was Tamryn and Timothy, playing their game, completely neglecting their task of gathering all the candles in the house. There was Esther, arms crossed, brooding in the corner, refusing to help at all. Then he came to Madison, sprawled out in a recliner, her glass filled with so much whiskey it stung his eyes as he came near.

One more left. He hoped she would show up.

He walked over to Madison. She pretended not to see him.

"Not hiding it anymore, I see." He nodded at her glass.

"Oh, fuck you," she rolled her bloodshot eyes up at him. "If I have to be here, then at least let me enjoy myself."

He could tell she was already two bottles deep. She'd be passed out long before they got started. He watched her for a minute, remembering the woman he first saw, before her skin began to turn a greyish yellow, when her soft brown eyes were clear and alert. He still felt a twinge of guilt over what he'd brought her into, but he'd long stopped regretting any of it.

The front door opened just then, and everyone turned to look. She came in slowly, looking at each one of them, staring them down, until they looked away.

Mary.

Without a word, she shut the door, and walked across the room. William watched her, backing into the corner, time slowing down.

Mary. Her eyes glowed like blue flames. Her red velvety hair pulled back into a strict bun.

Mary. Tall and strong. Examples of her bravery and skill decorated the green gabardine of her South Region Guard uniform.

Mary. Her head held high, her heels clicking formidably on the wood floor. Fierce. Invincible. Unbreakable.

Mary. The little girl he watched silently from the window, without her knowing, spinning in the grass in her communion dress, the skirt billowing around her like flower petals.

Mary. The little girl he had disappointed too many times, the chasm between them so impossibly wide; his pride and his torment.

Mary.

When she saw Emily, her face softened back into the gentle girl she once was. "Mama!"

Emily embraced her, and they whispered together in mixed Spanish and English. Esther came over to hug her, too. They had always been close. William hung back, hoping the dark corner of the living room would hide him. Madison pulled another bottle from her bag, took one long pull before emptying it into her glass, her eyes dilated with hatred.

"Mom, mom," Ephraim came over just then. He gently took the glass from her. "Let's get you something to eat, okay?"

"Get her out," Madison pouted like a child. "Get her out of my house."

"This isn't your house," William said coolly.

"I don't care," she mumbled, the words squishing together. "I don't want her here."

"Just a little bit to eat, okay?" Ephraim looked over at his father. _Why aren't you taking care of this?_ The phrase flashed through his head, making William look away.

William met Emily's eyes from across the room and shrugged. So, they weren't a happy family. But still a family, nonetheless.

Mary's blue-flame eyes found William at last. The older she got the more she resembled her grandmother. She gave him a nod in greeting, nothing more. He wasn't even expecting that. He nodded back. At least she was here now, and they could soon begin.


	9. Chapter 9

_Private Electronic Journal, c. 2026, Dana Scully_

George and Anne Boleyn.

Napoleon and Pauline Bonaparte.

Lucrezia and Cesare Borgia.

And now…William and Emily.

I was looking all of that up; I intellectualize, it's my defense mechanism. I do research, I analyze, and I look for facts. It's what I was trained to do, and it doesn't help this time. At least with all the others, it's speculation…

William came over, without Emily, and even before he started talking, I knew. When he sat down, his eyes sad, his face reddened with shame, I knew. I told him his dad had gone out and would be back soon, if he wanted to wait. He sat across from me, shaking his head.

"It's not….it's not, um…," he began, and then all the pieces clicked right into place. Their familiarity with each other, Emily's frequent absences these last few months for being "sick."

"No, William." I held up my hands trying to block his words. "Just don't. Please don't."

But he didn't listen.

He said, almost too slowly, almost too loudly, that Emily is pregnant, and he is the father. I covered my face with my hands, squeezing my eyes shut, wanting to shut out that moment, shut out his words, shut out his face. He'd said it aloud after all. I asked him how far along, and he said five months. _Five months_.

"What the hell did you just say?!" We hadn't heard him come in. We both turned to see Mulder standing there, wide-eyed looking at William then at me. His words stung the air around us with something heavy and frightening. I wasn't sure how much he'd actually heard.

William stood up just then and repeated himself. He shook his head again, over and over, saying, "It's not….it's not the same as…it's just not the same."

"What are you saying?!" Mulder snapped, coming across the room. I stood up then, in between them. There was something in his voice that I rarely hear, but I know to be careful of it when I do.

"What did you do?" Mulder said, his voice darkening, getting lower.

"It's not the same," William said. "We couldn't help it."

"Not the same! Not the same as what?! She's your _sister_! What did you do to her?" Mulder moved closer, and I held up my hands to block him from William.

"Mulder…"

"Aren't you hearing this?!" He looked from me to William in disbelief.

"It's not the same!" William yelled, his fist coming down on the table, his voice echoed preternaturally through the house, then all the light bulbs popped. They just all exploded. All at once.

I backed away from him, back towards Mulder. Oh God, what is he? He and Emily had showed us things, but this…I didn't know anything about this.

"Did you do that?!" Mulder looked around at the darkened room, shards of glass all over the floor, on side tables, lampshades with holes.

"I think you should go," I told William. He looked ashamed, tears coming to his eyes. And still I wanted to run to him, hug him, and comfort him.

"I'm sorry…I'm so sorry," he bowed his head, turning to leave. We watched him go, turning back to us as if he had something else to add, then leaving without another word.

Much later, Mulder was taking a bath. I walked in, took off my clothes, and sat in behind him.

"Not now," he mumbled. "I have a headache."

I pulled him back against me, kissing his shoulders. Oddly, it struck me at that moment that we'd never done that, took a bath together. Haven't we? Or maybe not? I don't know. He began to ramble on angrily. He said I should be angry, and if not angry then disgusted. Why am I not angry? I should be angry. I pulled him close to me, trying to get him to relax. After a time, he quieted down, leaning back against me, stroking my legs. We warmed into each other in the water, his breath becoming steady.

"It's not fair," he said. "You think you and your legs can just come in here and shut me up."

We sat there in silence for a while. I said that we should send a message to Emily. He didn't answer, and I thought maybe he hadn't heard me. I said it again, and he shook his head. I could feel him getting tense again.

"What's wrong with you?" He said. "You should be angrier than me. They're both yours."

I sat there thinking about it, and I'm still thinking about it: why am I not angry? Maybe because I've just gotten acquainted with them, and I don't want to lose them again. Maybe my Science Brain is trying to rationalize it somehow, like if they truly are the same, unlike anyone else, wouldn't they naturally be drawn to each other? Maybe it's because I can still remember William as a baby, and I believed he could do no wrong. Maybe it's because I remember Emily as a dying little girl who did not ask for the life she received. Maybe it goes far deeper than that. Maybe I'm just as fucked up as they are.

"Why are _you_ so angry?" I said. "Emily isn't your daughter."

He sat up, turning to look at me with the danger signs in his eyes that I'd sensed in him earlier. He got out of the tub, wrapping himself in a towel.

"I want you to say it, Scully. I want you to say that it is okay that _your_ daughter and _our_ son had intercourse, making us the unwilling grandparents of some inbred, alien, monster baby."

"They're not aliens!" I snapped, although I didn't really believe that.

"Just say it!" His voice rose, amplified by the tile.

I couldn't say it. I just sat there, unable to fight back. Unable to think of anything to say. He stormed out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, slamming the door. When I went in later, he was sitting on the bed holding the baseball cap he'd bought when he and William had gone together. He wiped his eyes, and looked up at me.

"I know why you're not mad," he said, unwrapping the towel and getting dressed. "You think this is your fault. Don't you?"

"What?"

"You gave on him. And you gave up on her. You think that's why."

"Mulder, stop it…"

"You gave him up, Scully. Emily wasn't in the casket. You gave up."

I stared at him in disbelief as he said these things and went about putting on clothes, like this isn't at all hurtful or accusing. I was so angry, so blindsided by this, I was shaking. After all these years…it comes out now.

"I gave up?" I could feel myself losing control. I could feel something, a feeling, a memory, breaking off inside me somewhere and floating to the surface of my consciousness, forming into words that came out of my mouth in a fury. "I gave up? You weren't even there! I was alone in it! You were not there! You left me alone!"

It was out now. I'd said it. Remembering how alone I was when I was pregnant, that hell, that terrifying birth, and trying to care for an infant all alone, without him. How in the hell does he have the right to tell me I gave up?

We stood there, staring at each other. I didn't even bother wiping the tears streaming down my face. I wanted him to see it: see all the hurt, the fear, and loneliness I'd hidden from him all those years ago. I'd held it all in. How could he say this to me? Now? Has he been holding this all inside for all these years? Have I?

He left a few hours ago. I don't know where he went or if he'll be back. I've been writing, searching for incestuous siblings, and crying. _Why?_ It's the only question I have. For God. For whoever. _Why?_ Why did they do this to all of us? Why did they come looking for Mulder and me in the first place? Maybe they should have just left us out of it. Maybe it would have been better if they'd never come to us and we'd known nothing about them. I'm afraid that the burden of this knowledge, the pain it carries with it, is going to crush me. I'm afraid of what Mulder and I said to each other today. I'm afraid of everything and everyone. It's too much. It's too much for me.

* * *

 **AL:** Oh my God. So they…they really…?

 **DS:** Yes. They really did. Looking back now, I think all I wanted was for things to be normal. I wanted to just pretend it wasn't really like that and carry on as if this grandchild wasn't the result of some unholy and unthinkable liaison. I went to visit Emily. I visited her many times, all without telling Mulder. The rift that created between us…I was waiting for him to see past it, and just continue as we'd started, being like a family. Blindly. Stupidly. He was waiting for me to see reason. _Me._ I was not used to being the unreasonable one. But I couldn't shut them out. I just couldn't do it. I was a doctor, and I wanted to be there for Emily. To take care of her, remembering all too well what my pregnancy was like.

 **AL:** What about William?

 **DS:** I mean, I spoke to him. I guess there was no going back after what he'd told us. I couldn't look at him the same way again. I think I put more blame on him than on Emily. Her life: created to die, only to live anyway, then be dumped off like garbage…I don't know. I felt like she needed me to stay; to not turn away from her, not give up on her.

 **AL:** William was with her, wasn't he?

 **DS:** Yeah. He was there. I could see then how much he loved her. It made me cringe, it made me sick, but I could see the love between them. The bond. But William…he didn't...

 _[Sighs. Long pause.]_

Their relationship is not the reason we don't talk now. You see, no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse. They can get better, too. But for us, for me, for Mulder, it didn't get better. It all gets worse for all of us. Forever and ever, it will never get better.

* * *

 _Letter from Ephraim Scott Mulder to Emily Gutierrez Scully_

 _Handwritten on paper, c. 2051, converted digitally 2061_

 _Used with permission, DS Sanctuary Agreement, Clause 4_

Dear Emily,

I'm writing you in hopes that you will listen to me. I know you will never listen to my mother, but please listen to me: you have to stop her. I'm not an innocent child anymore, I never really was, and I know what she is. I know how she came into this world, and she will kill me. She will kill all of us. She can do it, and you know that she can.

I have been reading about a procedure that can be done, very quickly, very painlessly. It's not at all invasive, and at the very least she will be irreversibly barren. Please consider it. For us, for our father, and for you. This is the only thing I will ever ask of you ever. I know we've never gotten along, but please, you have to do something.

Sincerely,

E. Scott Mulder

* * *

 _South Region Guard Enlistment Roll, c. 2047_

 _Military and Naval Archives_

 _North American Union Records Administration_

Name: MARY LOUISA KATHERINE SCULLY

AKAs: NONE

DOB: FEBRUARY 24, 2027

POB: NORTH REGION, NAU

UID: _[redacted]_

Rank: PRIVATE

Height: 180.34cm

Weight: 71.7kg

Eye color: BLUE

Hair color: RED

Languages: ENGLISH, SPANISH, ARABIC, AMERICAN SIGN LANGUAGE

Markings, scars, tattoos, piercings, etc.: RED SNAKE TATTOO INSIDE LEFT FOREARM, SURGICAL SCAR ON RIGHT TEMPLE

Weapon assigned: M4 CARBINE - SERIAL NUMBER: _[redacted]_

* * *

 _Click, click, click._

William hated the sound.

The _click, click, click_ of his dress shoes on the polished laminate as they left the carpeted cube farm where all the analysts sat. Sam walked alongside him, and William wondered why there were guards with them; four pairs of dress shoes clicked forebodingly in the hallway leading to the teleconference rooms.

William had gotten the meeting maker in his email two days ago. That morning he'd pressed his suit, changed his tie six times, and drank two extra cups of coffee. It was nerve-wracking and exciting – the President of the North Region of the North American Union wanted to see him. _Him_. A lowly analyst.

Out of all of them – The Big Four – she was perhaps the most imposing and interesting. Julia Crow Dog, a tiny Lakota woman, had a way of making one sense her 4'10" frame was much larger. She'd altered her name to Crodog during her campaign. She'd won the election by promising all the indigenous tribes of North America she would fight for their sovereignty. She'd dropped the ball literally the second day she was in office. Whether that had been her personal choice or not, she remained popular with the native people of the NAU, who, at the onset of the new nation, watched all their past treaties and agreements with the former governments obliterate.

When they entered, Julia Crow Dog was half hidden by two monitors and she barely looked up from her phone. Seated next to her was her secretary, Julian Burns, from the former Canadian province of Quebec. Julia and Julian; what a team they made and what an opportunity they created for political commenters who often drew them together as the Wicked Witch of the North and her Flying Monkey.

William wished like hell he hadn't drank so much coffee. He could feel sweat forming under his armpits and sticking to his dress shirt. He didn't dare sit down until one of them told him to. He wondered if the other three were on the monitors or listening from somewhere. But no…this couldn't be that important, could it?

Julia looked up at William and Sam finally, nodding at them to sit. She crossed her arms and turned to Julian to begin.

"William Mulder, thank you for coming. We know they keep you analysts very busy," Julian said.

William nodded. How is it that his armpits were soaked and his mouth was dry as a desert?

"I'll get right to the point," Julian pulled out his device and swiped through it. "We know what you are."

William's heart thudded against his shirt and tie. "I'm sorry?"

"We know. It's okay, though. We're not really interested in you. We're interested in the females like you, of which there are two: your mother and your sister."

"I don't…I don't understand." William turned to Sam, who had seated himself in the corner, feigning interest in his phone.

Julia rolled her eyes. "For Christ's sake. It's all right here." She gestured to Julian's tablet.

William shut his eyes for a moment. He was a Privacy Analyst, but that privacy was for citizens not for government employees. All those blood tests when he was hired…of course they would know.

"As I said," Julian continued. "We're interested in the females. Longer life, reproductive capacity, less susceptible to illness, and all of that. It looks like both your mother and sister are slightly different from you, but in a good way."

"I'm not doing this," William stood up, expecting someone to stop him. He went to the door to leave and still no one stopped him. It had to be a trick.

"I'd sit down and listen very carefully if I were you." Julia Crow Dog's icy voice cut through him like an arctic wind.

William turned back to them.

"As you know," Julian said, his voice softer, almost apologetic. "The Asian, Arabic, and African Unions are growing. Soon they will more than equal our access to resources and military power. We need your help. And the help of your sister or your mother."

William slowly went back to his seat and sat down.

"The former governments were corrupt and made many mistakes, but they also did things to ensure global dominance, if it ever came to that." Julian exchanged a quick glance with Julia. "We'd like to clone one of them, your mother or your sister. A collection of people like them would be a very valuable asset to national security."

William didn't want to listen. He wanted to press his hands to his ears, squeezing and squeezing until his ear drums popped.

"Cloning is still illegal, I have my people working on it," That was Julia now, the ice had melted from her voice. "So we'll have to improvise, but we can do it. The whole process might take a few days to about a week. We can give you a sedative, very safe, even for a pregnant woman, and they'll never know what happened to them."

William leaned forward. "You want me to drug my mother and sister, then bring them to you for some illegal experiment to create some freak army?"

"Not both," Julian corrected. "Just one is all we need."

The room was quiet for a few minutes. Sam cleared his throat as if he might chime in, but remained silent.

"Absolutely not," William growled. "If you want to experiment on my family, you drug them and kidnap them yourselves. I'm not going to be a part of it."

Julia and Julian exchanged another glance.

"We know about your relationship with your sister," Julia said. The way she said it, _relationship_ , like she was holding a filthy rag away from her, made William's face burn with shame. "She's what…seven months along now?"

He looked at each of them, trying for rage, but he knew they could see the fear and humiliation in his eyes. They knew everything. Every single fucking thing. Of course they did. They knew when they sent the meeting maker. They would always know.

"We were hoping," Julian continued. "For Emily. She's younger and it certainly helps that she's pregnant with your child. We're very interested to see what the two of you created."

Somehow putting it that way was worse. William felt the shaking begin in his hands, then travel down his arms into his legs. He tensed up, trying to control it. He didn't want them to see how well they'd gotten to him. "And my mother?"

"She would be fine, she is the origin after all, only she's very old. She might not survive the process. Either at the time or later, when she's returned. But we thought we'd give you the choice, as a professional courtesy."

William stood up suddenly, his chair falling back with a loud thwack. No one batted an eye. "Oh! It's good to know we are being professionals! For a minute there it seemed like this was unprofessional blackmail!"

Julia stared at him, her brown eyes flat and cold. She was unimpressed. "We're prepared to offer you a generous compensation package for your trouble: your salary, plus a 20% increase every year, for the first eighteen years of the life of your child and any children you may have. You can have a hundred if you want. It'll be deposited into a fund that you can access at any time, any place. Your children will want for nothing and will always be safe."

Before William could challenge their sincerity, Julian pushed his device across the table. "It's already done for the first two years. See? Consider it a down payment."

William stared at the figures, at all the zeros. It was legit. He could take that money, take Emily, and leave the Union forever. He could buy his own island somewhere in the Pacific. They could run away after it was all over…they did not have to stay here. "How long do I have to decide?"

"As soon as possible," Julia said. "But we'll give you until the end of the month. As we said, either one of them will do, but Emily would be the best choice."

As William left the meeting, he took a detour to the men's room. He retched repeatedly into the toilet. He took off his jacket, and loosened his tie, the clothing suddenly making him feel claustrophobic. He went to the sink to cool his face with water, and looked up at himself. He knew then who it had to be. He knew then who he would have to drug, lie to, and sacrifice. For the good of the Union; for the good of his offspring's future. He would do as they asked, then he would leave forever, and not look back.


	10. Chapter 10

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2002, Dana Scully_

We're alone and we're hunted. But at least we are together now. And I thank God, over and over, that he's still alive. After all we've been through, after all we've done…I thank God we are still alive and we are together now. Even if it has to be this way, as fugitives, as the FBI's Most Wanted and Most Hated.

I look up at him as he makes love to me. I run my hand up the center of his chest, around his neck; I grasp the back of his head and pull him down. I want him to cover me. Just cover me. With all his warmth, with all his love, with all of himself. I want him to hold me down. Drink me in. When his face is close to mine, I can see tears in his eyes. At first, I think it's because he loves me. I think it's because he's filled with so much emotion, he can't hold it all in. It touches me. I think he's going to say it, but instead he says he's sorry. He'll never leave me alone again. He'll never abandon me again, even if it means he'd lose his own life.

Is it because no one is watching now? Is it because no one is following or listening? Is it because I still worry that this will be the last time? Because we can say it now. We can tell each other the truth. With our words, with our bodies, with our eyes watching each other as he moves inside me. Can he see my truth? All the things I never wanted to tell him about or discuss. All the things I kept safely away from him. Can he see it now?

I tell him that it wasn't abandonment. Don't say it like that. It wasn't. But I don't want to talk. I want to flatten myself beneath him, stretch out, open up, sink deep into this bed with him and never come up for air. We spent too much precious time pretending, diverting, and waiting for the other one to do something. He was almost executed. There have been too many narrow escapes for us both. Can we keep the foundation strong while we build this new life on top of it? Can I keep us safe? Because it must be me. It must be me who keeps us safe now.

Afterwards, I pull him over to me. He lays his head on my chest, his head rising and falling as my breath slows. I kiss his forehead, closing my eyes, and listen to our breathing. It must be me. I must keep us alive, keep us safe. He raises his head to look at me, his fingers idly tracing circles around my stomach.

"Please don't ever abandon me," he says.

I put my hands around his face, looking in his eyes for something I'm not sure of just yet. He's always been so certain of it all. He's always led us into our work with determination, with a self-assurance that rarely faltered no matter what his superiors said to him. I think he's broken now. He has no one else but me. I see it in his eyes as he searches for my answer. He needs to hear it.

"I made a promise," I say. "I took a vow."

I pull him close to me. I take his arms and wrap them around me. I won't ever abandon him. There may come a time when I may die if I don't, but I won't do it. Because it must be me. It must be me that keeps us whole.

* * *

Emily was aware she was dreaming. Even though it altered slightly from night to night, she knew it wasn't real. Sometimes, in the dream, she's 7 or 8 or a little older. She's following Sister Louisa out to the locked storage shed in the back of the cathedral. The criminals in Honduras did not care that it was a holy sanctuary, so the stone crucifix decorated with precious gems had to be locked away before Mass.

Emily hated carrying the heavy cross, afraid of the face of Jesus, screwed up in agony. It upset her to see such torture. Emily would purposely turn the crucifix so that the eyes of the Savior looked up at Sister Louisa, not at her. But Emily would always make a mistake: she'd trip, she'd drop her end, breaking it. Sometimes the head of Jesus would snap off and come rolling to a stop at her feet, his eyes looking up at her. Could he see through to her wickedness?

That was when Emily would wake with a start, disoriented for a few seconds. She woke this time with a gasp. She looked around remembering where she was as the last images of the dream faded. Pieces of her old life, her childhood, were coming to her now as she prepared to raise her own child. And she missed the sisters. She often wondered how they were. Union networks were spotty to non-existent in the borderlands, so Emily had to write them letters by hand. She had not told them of her pregnancy. She wasn't ready, and she didn't really believe she would ever be ready. She looked in her bedroom doorway and saw William there, looking at her strangely.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

"Yes." She was still replacing all her _Y_ sounds with a hard _J_ sound. "I had that dream again."

"Oh. Can I get you anything?"

"No. I am okay."

Just then, Emily felt the familiar flutter in her womb.

"Oh!" She put both hands around her abdomen. "She is moving!"

William stepped closer, a half smile on his face. "She? You found out?"

"No. I just feel like it is a girl. It is hard to explain." Emily placed her hand over the spot again and smiled. It was a wonderful feeling: the life inside her growing stronger every day. How could she see this as anything less than a miracle, a blessing?

"She must be very strong," Emily whispered. She wasn't sure if William heard her. She looked up at him, hesitating in the doorway.

They hadn't touched each other or slept in the same room since they'd found out. Emily had had horrible morning sickness, and the baby drained her of all her energy. She slept most of the time, and when she wasn't sleeping she was nauseated. Every once in a while, she would get a burst of energy, a strange euphoria would come over her. She would feel wonderful, alive, exuberant, but then after a few days it would dissipate. William did the best he could to help. He'd bring her breakfast in bed, flowers, and any odd food combinations she craved. But they didn't touch each other. Not even a simple embrace. They both knew they would sink right back under the liquid warmth again; all these past months of aversion would come to naught.

But this time Emily gestured for him to come in. It wasn't fair that he couldn't feel their child kicking and squirming with life. She wanted him to feel the baby's strength. William walked in and sat next to her on her bed, carefully, gently as if he were afraid it would break. She took his hand and pressed it to a spot just below her naval.

"Can you feel it?"

After about a minute, he felt a tiny kick. Then another.

"Yeah! I feel her!" Before he could stop them, his eyes filled with tears. How could this have been a mistake? Why did this have to be something to be ashamed of? He wiped his eyes, then quickly took his hand away. Emily watched him for a moment. Lately, it seemed as if there was something in his mind, moving just out of her detection each time she found it, like a shadow darting quickly behind objects.

"Are you okay, William? Did something happen?" She asked.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I mean, no. Just, um…I've had a lot of work assigned to me this week. Complex things. Well, more complex than usual."

There it was again. The shadow sliding just out of her view and running to hide somewhere else. If there was something he didn't want to tell her, then that was okay. They each needed their own minds and their own thoughts. It wasn't reasonable of her to expect him to be completely transparent all the time. But he could just say so, couldn't he?

He looked at her, sensing, reading. "And I miss you."

Even though they saw one another every morning and every evening, she knew what he meant. At times, it felt like there was a canyon between them. They looked into each other's eyes as they met in the Waiting Room, the longing, tainted with guilt and uncertainty, pulsating around them. Emily slid her palm across his cheek, slowly, tenderly. "I miss you, too."

He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. Was her power different now? Not stronger, but sharper, enhanced? Was it because she had her own, plus the power of another growing inside her? It was electric. It sank into his skin, tingling through the deepest parts of him. Was it like this for other people? Did normal people feel this way, too? She moved closer so she could place both her hands on both sides of his face, drawing him near to her.

"Emily…" he said, trying to pull away, but not really trying hard enough.

Yes and No, both pulled at them in a tug of war, both sides matched in strength, and the tension never broke. It twisted; tighter and tighter and tighter still. His breath quickened; she could feel it against her skin as they came closer, their lips within a hair's breadth…

There were three loud knocks at the door, startling them, making them both pull back, the moment gone, shattering to pieces at their feet. Emily turned away, shaking her head. William pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. They had to do something about this. He had to stop this…somehow…it must stop.

There were two more loud knocks, and William went downstairs and opened the door. Their mother was standing there.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," William stood to the side to let her in.

She came by almost every week now, and she never looked him in the eye. She always avoided his face. As much as it pained him, what else could he expect? But today he was glad she avoided looking at him. He didn't want her to see the flush in his cheeks, the shame as it withdrew slowly, like withering vines.

"How is she?" She asked as she removed her coat and gloves, smoothing the sleeves of her blouse.

"She was taking a nap, but she had one of those dreams again."

"Well, that's normal. I had strange dreams, too…"

They both stood awkwardly as her voice trailed off. He wanted to ask her for more. He wanted to know all about her. All about her pregnancy with him. Stories of him as a baby, like all mothers tell. But there would be no stories for him.

She went upstairs to Emily's room. He could hear them talking softly. He walked slowly up the stairs and stood in the doorway, watching and listening. He watched both of them, hoping to get some kind of sign that his decision was the right one. Emily was more like their mother. There was no doubt. There was also no doubt that their mother preferred her over him. He felt a stab of envy, sibling rivalry. He'd never had to compete for parental attention before. He'd always been the only child and now he wasn't. He stood there for a long time; neither one of them seemed to notice.

Later, as his mother was leaving, she handed him a packet of pills.

"It's anti-nausea medicine," she said, putting on her coat. "It's safe. It'll help her sleep, too. She's wary of pills, but I'm sure she'll listen to you."

He watched his mother for a minute, getting ready to leave, taking the long train ride back to the East Region, a deep sadness seeping into him.

"Are you always going to hate me?" He asked, surprised he'd said it aloud.

She sighed, looking up, impatient. "I don't hate you, William. You're my son. You're…I don't hate you."

There was a pause. He waited for her to say more. She didn't.

"But dad hates me," William said. "He hates both of us. Doesn't he?"

She flicked the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth, as was her habit when she was annoyed or troubled. "He loves both of you. Very much. But, well, we all have different ways of coping."

"Is he home yet?"

"No." She looked him in the eye then, briefly. Her eyes were sad, defeated. "We're working on it."

"You don't have to come all the way up here. If it means there'll be trouble between you, maybe you shouldn't"

"Maybe." She was staring out the window behind him, at something he wouldn't be able to see. "That child, your child, isn't going to have an easy life. For many reasons. I think maybe he doesn't want to witness it. I think he's disappointed, too."

"Disappointed?"

"Yeah. We thought you were coming to us to be our son, to be with us, to know us. That you'd found Emily and brought her with you so we could all be a family. But you just wanted to unburden yourselves – you just wanted –"

"No," William shook his head. "It wasn't like that at all."

"Three years, William. Three!" She was looking him right in the eyes as she said it. "Three years and then five months. Both of you waited all that time….I know why. I can see why. But don't pretend this is about family. Don't pretend that this was a good thing, a welcome thing. And that we're wrong for not celebrating and your father isn't here to smoke a cigars with you and pat you on the back."

William didn't know what to say. He looked down, embarrassed. He hoped Emily wasn't listening.

"I don't know," she sighed again. "I just know that this is how things are, and I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to deal with this. I don't know if I'm right or if I'm wrong."

He wanted to hug her then, but he was afraid she'd push him away.

"Well," he said. "I think this child will have a wonderful life. The best I can give her. And I can't make you or dad feel something that you don't. But I always knew you were out there. Even when I was little, I knew about you. I wish we'd found you under different circumstances. I wish we'd—" He shook his head. Unable to finish his thought.

They stood in silence for a while. Someone's phone beeped, but they ignored it, didn't bother to check.

"I should get back," she said finally, opening the door. "I'll see you next week."

"Okay."

He watched her leave, then stood staring at the door for a long time, his fist clenching around the anti-nausea pills until they were crushed into a fine powder.

He'd made the right choice. Now it was time to act.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2027, Dana Scully_

If this were the old days, I'd just pick up my phone and call him.

"Mulder, it's me," I'd say, then he'd tell me he was caught up in something, and I need to come see it or help him. Or he'd want to know about some lab results. An exchange of facts and data, two partners checking in. At least back then, when I heard his voice, I could stop worrying for a minute. My heart would slow down, just a little, knowing he's okay. If he's answering his phone and talking, he's okay.

But this isn't the old days. This isn't Bureau business, and I'm not carrying around a case file. This is now, and this is killing me.

I think this is the longest he's ever been gone. Willingly, that is. He didn't take his phone. He didn't take anything. He just drove off. I know he can't go too far for too long. Our travel restrictions keep us chained to the area, so I suppose I'm more hurt than worried. This seems deeper and bigger than just anger. This is something else. And I keep thinking, although I shouldn't, that he's done it again – he's left me alone to deal with our son, my children, without him.

I don't want to think like this. I don't want to. I'll replay all the times in my head when there was certainty of his feelings and certainty of his loyalty. I have a bank of vignettes to draw from to comfort me. But it's not enough. Not now.

I thought the other day, that if I can't call him, then there's only one other person I can call. And she had to come here; she doesn't have the same travel restrictions as I do.

Monica. I opened the door and there she was. Hardly changed. The time has treated her well. We've only really communicated through texts and emails over the years. Sometimes she sends me pictures of her children. I felt selfish, asking her to come all this way, because my first choice was gone. I know she doesn't see it that way, but I still felt guilty. She sat across this table from me, listening to all of it, nodding, understanding, and patient.

"I know he's not with John," she said. "He would've told me, but I can message him." She picked up her phone.

"No," I said. "I don't want him to think there's something wrong."

"But there is."

She's right. There is. I told her that I felt like if I did something, like tried to look for him, it was making it more real. More of a problem. I don't want this to be real. I don't want this to be happening to me right now. Especially right now; we're going to be grandparents. Emily is a ticking time bomb. And that baby… I told Monica I was scared of what it might be, of what might be wrong with it. I told her about the case Mulder and I worked, long before she joined, with the inbred family. What if she comes out looking like that? Deformed. A monster.

She shook her head. "I don't think it will be like that. I mean, they're not really…," she shrugged, trying to find the right words. "Emily came from a lab, right?"

I nodded. "But they used my ova, my DNA, in that lab. There's no way around it, Monica."

She didn't have a reply. She just reached across the table and took my hand. How long has it been since someone has held my hand like that? Sometimes you don't know you miss something, need something, until it happens. She stayed all through the weekend into today. She flew back to the West Region this afternoon. She was going to stay longer, until I heard from Mulder, but I didn't let her. She has her own life, her own family. Her children are normal. They bicker and fight like all siblings do. They bicker and fight with her and with Doggett. I didn't let her call him. If Mulder's with him, then at least I know he's okay. She'll probably do it anyway, though, trying to help, trying to be a friend.

It's too empty here. It's too quiet. I want to scream, over and over, to hear something, to feel something. Has he really abandoned me again, so willingly, so easily? I can't do it alone. Not again.

* * *

William was still standing in the corner, everyone looking at him expectantly.

 _We're all here. Now what?_

He was trying to sort through all the memories. Sort through all the thoughts that pierced through his subconscious, floating around, unbidden, unprocessed, unwanted.

Mary took off her blazer, setting it on the back of a chair, smoothing down the sleeves. Tamryn and Timothy looked up at her, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. They'd never seen her before. She looked down at them, smiled faintly, and turned her icy eyes back on him.

She could kill them all. Right now. Just a flick of her eyes, she could snap all their necks one by one, then leave without a second thought. He often wondered why she didn't do it, because she could – just like the birds.

She'd killed an entire flock when she was only six. He remembered him and Emily running outside when they heard her scream. There was a whole flock of crows, dead, their talons curled, beaks open.

Mary looked at them, eyes wide. "But I didn't do anything!" She cried. "I didn't do anything!"

William looked around, dead birds everywhere. It was probably only about a dozen or so, but it seemed like hundreds.

"Mary," Emily knelt down in front of her. "Tell me what happened."

"I just...I just…," her chin trembled, tears trickled down her cheeks. "They were so pretty. I wanted to hold one."

"Mary," Emily said, slowly, softly. "It's alright, but you must learn to control it. When you feel it here," she put her hands on each side of Mary's head. "When you feel it happening, you have to turn it off. Like turning off a water spout, okay?"

"It just happens so fast…"

"I know, _preciosa_. I know," she pulled Mary, sobbing loudly, into her arms.

Emily looked up at William, a feeling like dread passed between them. She really hadn't meant to do it. Had she?

They wrapped each bird in tissue paper that Mary picked out. It was for Christmas gifts, so it sparkled in the evening light as the three of them carefully wrapped up each bird, then gently placed it in a hole William dug. When they covered it up, Mary knelt over it to pray. William looked at Emily to see if she felt what he was feeling. The anxiety was in her eyes, too.

After Mary finished praying she turned to look up at them. That was when they both saw an inky, black liquid pass over Mary's eyes like dark clouds over the moon. Emily slowly put her trembling hand over her mouth. William took a step back.

"Will the birds go to heaven, Mama?" Mary asked, completely unaware.

"Yes," Emily answered, both her hands trembling. "Yes, they will go to heaven."

Mary soon learned to control it, so no more dead birds fell from the sky, but William and Emily didn't forget it. And William didn't want to remember right then, with everyone there, and Mary's death-stare right on him.

She'd been a sensitive and thoughtful little girl, afraid of herself, afraid of harming anything. So much was different about her now. He remembered when she was about 11 or 12, Emily had brought her to meet the triplets. The three of them – Ephraim, Esther, and Eve – sat out in the garden playing against each other solving puzzles. They were only 8 or 9 years old. Fiercely competitive, their thumbs moved quickly over their tablets as they swiped and tapped through each level. Mary hung back on the deck, looking at them cautiously.

"It's okay," Emily said gently. "Go say hello."

Mary hesitated, then walked over to them, her hands clasped in front of her. "Hi." She said.

Neither one of them looked at her.

"I'm Mary." She tried again.

Ephraim glanced up at her. "We know who you are. Our mom doesn't want us to talk to you."

Mary turned back to look at William and Emily, her face turning red.

 _They hate me!_

 _It's okay._ They told her. _Just try again._

Mary turned back and took a deep breath. "I'm your sister. Can't we be friends?"

Eve looked up from her game. "No. You're an abomination."

Mary's face fell. She didn't know what to say. Hanging her head, she turned back to William and Emily, her shoulders sagged in defeat.

 _I told you! They hate me!_

Just then, Esther popped up and ran over to Mary. "Wait!"

Mary turned around.

"Never mind them," Esther waved off her brother and sister. "My name's Esther."

"Hi," Mary said shyly.

Both girls stood for a few moments, looking around, unsure of how to continue.

"You have really pretty hair," Mary said finally. "Can I braid it?"

"Okay."

Esther sat down, and Mary sat behind her. They began chattering away like old friends. William and Emily smiled at each other. It wasn't a total disaster. Maybe they would all get along after all.

"You brought her to my house?"

William felt her hissing breath on the back of his neck. He turned to see Madison standing there. It was before the drinking had taken its toll. Her blonde hair was backlit by the setting sun. She looked almost angelic.

"They're family," William sighed. "They should get to know one another."

Madison turned to look at Emily, who'd stepped away from them, her arms folded around her.

"What are you doing?" Madison said, her voice low, accusing.

"I just think they should know about each other," William said.

The rage faded from Madison's eyes, as a realization dawned on her. She looked at him incredulously. "You – you brought her here for my son. To parade around in front of my son –"

"They're not like that!" William snapped. "Why are you even thinking that? Dammit, Madison!"

Without another word, she stormed out into the garden, her ankles rolling unsteadily on her high heels.

"Don't you touch her!" She yelled at Mary.

She pulled Esther away, smacking at Mary's hands. "Hands off! Get your hands off my daughter! Ephraim! Eve! Inside!"

The four of them walked past, Madison's eyes blazing, Esther biting her lip, glancing back at Mary. They'd left her out in the garden, alone, stunned.

"Come, Mary," Emily said. "Let's go home."

Mary walked over to her mother, and they went around to the front of the house.

"Will you some see me, Papa?" Mary asked. "At Christmas?"

"Yeah," William lied. "At Christmas."

Mary nodded sadly. She knew he was lying.

Then they were gone. He didn't see Mary in person again for another year or two. And now here she was, with the rest of his family, all of them looking at him, waiting.

"Has all the glass been taken care of?" William asked.

"I think so," Emily said.

"Do we really have to do this here?" Ephraim asked. "Can't we just go further out? Down the road a bit?"

"Of course not," William said. "This is our home, and we have more control here. We know what to expect."

"Do we have to do it at all?" That was Esther, arms crossed and angry. "It's wrong."

"It's not wrong," William said. "She's our Mother. She is the First. Everything we are we owe to her. She needs our help."

"Feh!" That was Madison. She rolled out of the recliner and stumbled out the back door into the yard, cradling her bottle of whiskey. She was far too drunk. Sophia would have to do her part.

"I guess we should go outside and get ready, then." William said. "Sophia and Aiden can read."

"Can we come, too, dad?" Timothy asked.

"I don't know…," Ephraim said hesitantly.

"Well, they can't hurt anything," William said. "They might as well learn."

"Okay, fine," Ephraim replied. "But you two stand between me and your Aunt Eve."

Timothy and Tamryn excitedly ran out the back door, almost running over Madison. As everyone went outside, William walked over to Emily, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"She came," he said. "I'm glad."

Emily smiled. "Me, too."

They watched Mary as she went out with Esther, the ouroboros tattoo peeking out from under her shirt sleeve. They all had it; it was their insignia. They each had a choice on where to put it, but not on the colors or the size. They all had to be the same in that way. William had chosen the same spot for his. Maybe they could talk about that. He could use that to start a conversation with her.

But that would have to come later. Right now, they had to do this. And even if they never saw one another again after tonight, at least, right then, they were all together. As a family.


	11. Chapter 11

_Letter to Emily Gutierrez Scully_

 _Printed ink on paper, c. 2040, converted digitally 2061_

 _Used with permission, DS Sanctuary Agreement, Clause 4_

Dear Ms. Gutierrez Scully:

Thank you for your application to the South Region Military Academy. After careful consideration, I am pleased to inform you that your daughter Mary has been accepted into the Fall 2040 Class!

Please find enclosed with this letter an orientation packet, fee schedule, and instructions for the aptitude tests. They must be completed no later than August 1, 2040. They will be used to determine her entering class rank.

We look forward to meeting Mary in the fall and welcoming her into one of the most prestigious military academies in the NAU. If you have any questions, you may contact me by the phone number listed below.

V/R

Marcus W. Skinner

Dean of Enrollment and Recruitment

South Region Military Academy

(999) 555-1212

* * *

 **AL:** So, I guess we'll talk about your time in the Council. When did you start?

 **WM:** Well, my adopted father worked for the Old Republic. He was in the, um, the DOD, and was offered a position in the North Council once the transition was complete.

 **AL:** DOD?

 **WM:** Department of Defense. It was all divided up like that back then. Anyway, I basically obtained my position through him. I was a privacy analyst for about ten years, then I became a policy analyst. In those days, privacy analysts were the "cleaners." We were responsible for scrubbing all the databases and files of private information. Paper files, too. There were truck loads, shipping containers bursting with paperwork, coming in from every part of the Union. The Haitians, Jamaicans, and Puerto Ricans were not particularly attached to the imperialist history of their islands. They wanted a fresh start. A, um, a new history. They sent us all the British and French stuff. We had a lot of cleaning up to do.

 **AL:** What kind of information did you have to clean up?

 **WM:** How old are you again?

 **AL:** I'm 23.

 **WM:** Ah, so you've never lived in a world without this. Before the NAU formed, privacy was an illusion. You could enter your name in a search engine, and there was all this information out there about you. All of it without your express consent. Anyone could find you anywhere. Images of you, that you might not have known were taken, were right there. It had all gotten out of hand. With that came a strong distrust of institutions, like government, because the government seemed to be participants in privacy violations.

 **AL:** Did you find things about you?

 **WM:** Of course.

 **AL:** What kinds of things?

 **WM:** Well…my address. My phone number. I found my college transcript once. There was no one, uh, there was no one to stop people from doing this. But we did, and it worked. I went to a protest once. Or maybe it wasn't. I don't know. It became confusing at some point to know which side anyone was on. Every one there was rolling or drunk. There was a guy dressed like Uncle Sam walking around on stilts. A Mayan, too. Or maybe she was supposed to be Incan. She'd shaved off her eyebrows, earlobes all stretched out, etchings on her teeth.

 **AL:** Really?

 **WM:** Oh yes. They were all there: Canadian Mounties, Iroquois, Haitian Voodoo Queens, Spanish Conquistadors, Cherokees, and Cowboys. Hawaiian girls in grass skirts made an appearance until they were stripped of their statehood and sold to Japan. It was all so cartoonish, I remember. A little embarrassing. I'm sure the drones captured all of it, and it's in the archives somewhere.

 **AL:** Probably, but I haven't seen anything like that.

 **WM:** If you ever do, I'd like to see it. I'm sure I'm in one of them.

 **AL:** Okay. So, how did you find your parents? Was all their information out there, too?

 **WM:** Well, so…the databases of the Old Republic kind of popped up to the surface of the Web. All those databases were in the deepest, darkest parts of cyberspace. Impossible to find, until the transition began. Then I guess those who were responsible were either terminated or they just didn't care anymore and unplugged all the security. It was easy, really. I already knew my parents were not really my parents. I found classified records at the FBI, found their personnel files, their medical records, and their background investigations when they were first hired. Then I took that information to other sites. That whole transition was a benefit really. Everyone could see with their own eyes just how bad it was. There are still people who believe in the old establishments and have no faith in the NAU. But I do. It was right what we did. Things are better now. The world is better for us all.

 **AL:** I agree.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2027, Dana Scully_

When I came home today, he was here. Just sitting on the couch reading like this was any ordinary evening. I stopped short for a minute. A part of me wanted to wrap him up in my arms and thank God he was safe. But the part of me that wanted to yell, like some old nag, was overpowering. So I just did nothing. I took off my coat, unwrapped my scarf, and went to take a shower. What's the point in showing him how I really feel?

I dried my hair. I put on my pajamas. I got on my tablet to confirm my travel for the day and to read in bed. The same things I do every night, with him here or not. He came to bed later, long after I'd shut off the lights. I lay there with my heart pounding, eyes wide open. It was like the time he'd been gone hadn't happened at all. Skipping through the unpleasant parts of the film.

"David and Gillian Holdren." He said.

I didn't say anything, but I turned towards him slightly, so he'd know I was listening.

"I couldn't find her, but I found him."

I guess he thought I'd ask or show interest. I didn't.

"He was in the DOD. Did you know that?"

I sighed deeply. So, it's this again. "Who?"

"David. David Holdren. The man that raised your son – "

" _Our_ son," I snap at him. He's ours. Don't do that.

I feel him pause, caught off guard for just a moment. "Our son. His father, adopted father, he was in the DOD."

Am I supposed to be interested in this? Am I supposed to sit up and say _oh my god_ in disbelief? Or is this where I insert some of my old skepticism? Is this his excuse?

I turn on my back, but I don't look at him. "The agency handled everything. I just knew their income, their court records, criminal and financial history. I never met them. I didn't know their names."

"But the DOD? What are the odds of the agency choosing someone from there?"

"Because it was Washington. Did you forget? It wasn't _that_ long ago." I wondered if this would even be a discussion if William's adopted parents had been hippies on a marijuana farm in Colorado or something. Named Rain and River and the women on the commune didn't wear bras. Would that have been less suspicious to him?

He was quiet for a while. I turn away from him again and try to focus on something else, but that's impossible. He's home now, and the desire to feel his arms around me, or to fight over the facts, or both all at once isn't going to let me sleep. You forget, even in a short time, what it's like to have that person close to you, hear their breath, feel their warmth. It's a dependency.

"I didn't really know where I was going until I got there," he said. "I just wanted to see him, shake his hand, look him in the eye."

He senses what I almost ask half a second before I do. "He doesn't know," he says. "He doesn't know about…Emily…about…"

"Does she?" I ask.

"I don't know. I don't think so. He hasn't seen her in a long time. He told me he isn't really sure where she is."

We let that sit for a minute, and I wonder to myself if they should know. I'd forgotten about them, and how self-centered is that? They only raised him, fed him, sheltered him, protected him, and provided for him for the last twenty-five years. Shouldn't they know?

Mulder begins to tell me about the pictures. David Holdren had a photo album, which he should. The Other Dad. Mulder tells me about William's grade school pictures, the ones in middle and high school where he wore only black and looked somber. The ones with bright smiles at birthday parties, family vacations, and junior prom. A pretty girl on his arm. Social media filters that made the pictures look old, or bright, or enhanced the blue of his eyes. I closed my eyes and wished he would stop, but I wanted to know. Because we missed it all. We missed it. We missed the dentist appointments, arguments over bedtime, the changing of his voice, his graduation. Infant. Child. Man. We missed the gaps.

Mulder is behind me, as he's always done. Curling behind me, his chin on my shoulder, arms around me, and his breath in my ear.

"He was normal," he whispers, almost to himself. "Just average. I don't know what I was expecting him to be like."

"We should tell them," I say. "They should know."

He hesitates, threading his fingers through mine. "They should. But I don't think we should be the ones to tell them."

I guess we're okay now. I don't feel like demanding, nagging, or clinging. I feel like I don't want this to be the last time. Precious. All these moments of our lives, so precious, so short-lived.

"When are you going up next?" He doesn't want to ask, but I know his walls have come down.

"I don't know," I reply. "The weekend? Emily and I go to Mass sometimes.

"I'd like to see her."

Forgiveness. I reach up to touch his face, the relief I feel as he pulls me closer. Love and forgiveness, hand-in-hand, forever entwined. It's all we can do. I turn to face him. It's dark, but I can feel his eyes probing into mine. He wants to see if I'll say something. Something cold and hard from that last conversation that still hung between us. I say nothing.

One in five billion…more than that now, but he's mine, too.


	12. Chapter 12

**DS:** I have it here.

 _Sounds of DS going to the bookshelf, pulling out a book, and pages turning._

 **DS:** See?

 **AL:** Oh. _[reading]_ Mary Louisa Katherine Scully. Born February 23, 2027.

 **DS:** Yeah. I write them all in here.

 **AL:** That's your birthday, isn't it?

 **DS:** Yes. I turned 66 that day. And I don't remember anything else from that day except her.

 _More sounds of pages turning_.

I counted her fingers. And her toes. _[laughs_ _]_ I checked to see if she had a tail. I just wanted to make sure. She was a normal baby, but I knew that didn't mean anything. William was a normal baby when he was born, too.

 **AL:** So, she was born early.

 **DS:** She was. Not too early to be that dangerous, but they had to keep both of them for a couple of days. Not long. They were both fine.

 **AL:** Where is she now? Mary?

 **DS:** I don't know. She's in the Ceremonial Guard, I think. In the South. I guess she travels around with the SRP.

 **AL:** The presidential guard?

 **DS:** Right. Well, she's down there. I think she's actually killed people. They sent her to military school when she was about thirteen or fourteen. And, well, I guess they're bred to be part of the Guard one day, aren't they? I'm not sure of her rank.

 **AL** : I could find out.

 **DS:** Don't do that.

 **AL:** Mary Louisa Katherine?

 **DS:** Yeah. Louisa was the name of a nun that Emily was especially fond of. She added Katherine for me. Sometimes I think she hadn't intended on that until after I showed up. Either way, all life…it's a miracle. When you can detach from circumstances, it's all so…like how can anyone not believe in God? When you hold a child, your own child, your grandchild, so perfectly formed in your arms. I can't explain it to you properly. I wish I could, but…the love. Instantaneous. I wish I'd spent more time with her as she was growing up, but, well, you've heard it all now.

 **AL:** How was Mulder…how did he handle all that?

 **DS:** He didn't really try to bond with Mary much. He wasn't cruel to her, but…maybe he was scared of her. Emily and Mary stayed with us for a bit, then eventually Emily was able to get her own home and apply for a license to start her own practice. After that, Mulder never saw Mary again.

 **AL:** I can understand why you call it a burden.

 **DS:** Can you?

 _Long silence_

 **AL:** I'll come back tomorrow, then?

 **DS:** Stop talking to me as if I have a choice.

 **AL:** I'm sorry.

 **DS:** But not tomorrow, though. We have that banquet for all the Old Republicans. If we don't go, then they'll just stop doing them. So…I need to be there. There aren't many of us now, but I guess they'll continue until we're all dead.

 **AL:** Did Mulder used to go with you?

 **DS:** Yes. But then he died.

 _[End of recording.]_

* * *

William remembered when he was little, curled up in bed in his X-Men pajamas. He must have gone to bed super early that night, because it wasn't night yet. The blue evening light was still shining lazily through the curtains. He could see the slit of yellow hall light under his bedroom door. The lingering smell of food from dinner, and the muffled sound of the TV downstairs. It comforted him. It meant everything was okay.

He was in the place in between sleep and awake, hypnagogic state, when he saw the pale arm come into view. Then another. They reached back behind his head, only it wasn't his head. It just looked that way. A necklace came off from around his neck, the fair-skinned hands gently placed it in a box. He got a glimpse of her eyes in the mirror on the lid of the box before she closed it.

He opened his eyes, sat up, and looked across the room into his own mirror. It should have been him in the reflection, but there was a girl looking back at him. Sitting up in her own bed, like him. The corners of her room were dark except for lamplight by her bed. He should have been scared, opening his door, running down the stairs to his mother and father, screaming about the strange girl in his mirror. Any other kid would have done that. Instead, he got out of bed and stood in front of it. The girl did, too. Her red braids wrapped around her head, she could see him. She wasn't afraid.

They say scent memory is the strongest memory, but it's touch for him. When he raised his hand to reach out to her, it stopped, touching the mirror instead. He would always remember the glass against his palm: smooth, cold, slippery. He was confused. She's right there, yet his hand stopped. She tilted her head, looking puzzled, too. She raised her hand to his, but they couldn't feel each other. Maybe that's why he didn't get scared: the glass was there between them. This must not be real.

After a minute, her eyes began to wander, and she idly turned away from him, like she was bored with the game they were playing. She went and got back into her bed, so he did, too. The Girl in the Mirror. It didn't seem so unusual to him back then. William liked to think about that. It was nice memory, soft and comforting, like being wrapped in fuzzy blankets on a cool night.

He thought about it, and shared it with her, when they'd been together.

 _Do you remember this?_

 _Yes, I remember._

They had to concentrate on one another. Gently turning her face forward, bringing her eyes back on his.

 _Keep your eyes on mine._

It was the only way to shut off the flowing tap of shame. They'd seem to have come to some kind of agreement: if we shut it off, just for now, then it doesn't count. We will turn it back on later, after this. After we've done this. We will think about it then.

He could see inside her. She opened up, like Shiva's throat, and the Universe emerged to engulf him. What it was like to fall inside someone, helpless and in love; other people, normal people, did not experience this. He was certain.

He was thinking about it all now, with her head heavy on his shoulder; it slowly rolled back as he shifted to put his fingers on her neck. Her pulse was slow, but steady. The sedatives were safe, after all.

He got up, gently letting her fall back against the cushions. It had been simple. She trusted him. She didn't question the cloudy glass of water that he said the anti-nausea pills had been dissolved in. It wasn't a total lie. He'd mixed some of it in. This didn't bode well that he could deceive her like this so easily. He decided to worry about that later.

He tried to put on her coat, then gave up when her limp arms wouldn't cooperate. He pulled a couple of blankets off the bed and wrapped her in them. He put on her boots as if she'd be walking anywhere. He was ready to lift her up, when, as an afterthought he got her rosary, tucking it down into the folds of the blankets. He lifted her, then stumbled back; she was much heavier now. He carried her out into the cold, out to the car where Sam was waiting.

Sam got out to open the door, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Jesus, she looks dead. Is she dead?"

"Shut up and help me."

They put her in the back seat, and William got in on the other side next to her. Sam drove them down the mountain, snow banks several feet on either side of the road. At least they might block anyone from seeing.

William felt her pulse again when they were out on the main roads. It was the same. Sam looked at them in the rearview mirror.

"For the record," he said, "I think you all should leave after this is over. They didn't really mean it when they said they only needed one."

William checked to make sure her rosary hadn't fallen out. He wasn't sure why he'd brought it now. Seemed stupid now. She wouldn't be awake for any of it.

"Did you hear me?" Sam was smoking. He favored the electronic ones, thin and silver, where the tip lit up red as if it was real, _eMorley_ scrawled on the side.

"Roll down your window and shut up," William said, looking around. It was late, and there weren't many cars out. But headlights made him nervous. They felt like spotlights on a dark stage.

When they got there, Sam and William showed their credentials at the gate. The guards seemed completely oblivious to the unconscious woman laying across William's lap. Someone's told them.

Sam offered to help William carry her, but William refused. He wasn't going to let her go until he had to. He carried her down the halls until they found Julian Burns, waiting for them, smiling expectantly. Of course Julia Crow Dog wouldn't be here. Let the Flying Monkey do all the shady shit.

When one of the technicians took her from his arms, he felt his throat close and his eyes sting. He watched them take her in another room, and through a window he watched them lay her down on a hospital bed, unwrapping the blankets, the rosary fell to the floor. Another technician picked it up and placed it carefully in her hand. Behind him, Sam and Julian exchanged glances. William could see them in the faint reflection on the glass.

"One week," William said. "If you're not finished, too fucking bad. One week."

"Well..," Julian began. "We're working with a primitive setup. If we need one more day…"

William turned and walked over to him, slowly, leaning into his face as if he might kiss him, searching his eyes intimately.

"I'll squeeze your heart until it stops," he whispered, almost lovingly, his breath grazing Julian's lips. "If you keep her just a second longer, if you harm her or that child…right in your chest, where you stand. Until it pops and your veins explode inside you."

Julian's face paled. He swallowed.

"One week." William whispered again.

Julian said nothing. He looked over at Sam, who just shrugged, then back at William. Was he really capable of that?

William went back to the window to see her one last time before they left. They were feeling around for veins for an I.V. They'd exposed her stomach, getting ready for an ultrasound, when her eyes fluttered.

William blinked.

They fluttered again.

Again.

She turned her head. No one in there seemed to notice. He watched her lashes part slowly, she licked her lips.

Oh. Fuck.

She was looking up, then looking around. She squinted at the harsh light. The technician with the needle froze.

"Shit," Sam said.

Then she saw him.

"William?"

He couldn't really hear her, but he could read her lips. He backed away, tried to duck out of sight.

"William?!"

The technicians were around her now. They would have to hold her down to sedate her again.

"William!"

He backed away. He was caught. Spotlights shining all over him.

She was fighting them now. "WILLIAM!"

"Go!" Sam yelled. "Go now!"

And so he did. He ran away like a coward, his name echoing down the hall. She was pounding on the walls.

 _WILLIAM!_

He stopped abruptly, collected his thoughts, his breath, his courage. She was awake now, and would remember. He turned back, but he seized up suddenly, his legs buckling, tumbling to the floor. There was a sound, metallic, abrasive, it tasted like steel wool across his teeth. He plugged his ears, until he realized the sound was in his head. If she couldn't scream in his face, she would scream in his head. It was spiked, uncoiling, and writhing inside him. Her distress made him twitch violently, blood trickled out of his ears.

"WILLIAM!"

Sam's face, but no sound came out of his mouth.

"WILLIAM!"

There was someone else there, too, but it all shrank into a small square, it zoomed out from his vision, growing smaller, smaller, until it was black.


	13. Chapter 13

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2027, Dana Scully_

Is it necessary that I keep a personal record of everything? I rarely go back to read any of it, and when I do it's usually the nice memories. The happy ones that make me feel like life can still be a wonderful thing. I skip over the bad ones, scrolling right through them, the words blending together as if I can't get through it fast enough. I don't delete them. These things happened, and one day I might be brave enough to relive them again.

I am wondering now about this entry: will this be a good memory or a bad one? I think I'll just go in order, everything I can remember, every detail, just in case I want to relive it again someday.

Mulder and I had that banquet. I dressed myself in the only ball gown I own. I've worn it every year. I don't think anyone notices or cares. The peachy pink straps on my shoulders shimmer as I carefully insert my earrings. They are real diamonds that my mother gave me. They twinkle at me like her eyes when she would smile. I pull my hair over my shoulder and frown. I've just let it grow over the years, and I usually leave it loose for these things. But I decided to put it up for that night. I tried to fix it in the only fancy way I really know, the way my mother used to arrange it for Melissa and I for special occasions. High on my head, with twists at the crown and the sides. I pin everything into place and take a look at myself.

I've never really been vain, but I wanted to look beautiful. For no reason at all, really. Just so I can. I watch myself, and try to see if I can find her: Special Agent Dana Scully. She is a ghost now. I thought maybe I got a glimpse of her, dressed in a dark suit, head held high, pushing a strand of red hair behind her ear. Agent Scully is a treasonous, insignificant retiree now. She chased aliens but she is the alien in this new nation that punishes her, tracks her, and restricts her. I turn out the lights and she fades away into another time. I go out to the living room, the tulle at the bottom swishes as I walk; it flares out like a mermaid's tail.

Mulder sat on the couch, drinking a beer, switching channels from sports to news. His bowtie isn't done. He always has me do it for him. I bend down to put on my heels, the only pair I have now. He sees me and does a double take, the bottle nearly sliding from his hands to the floor.

"What?" Although I knew what. I can still do this to him, and I don't even try to hide my smile. He comes over, and I tie his bowtie. I can feel him watching me, something boyish and shy in his eyes.

I look up at him finally, smoothing out the tie and his collar.

"All done," I say.

He kissed me then. It was sudden, I barely had time to kiss back. There's a jolt between my legs, it surprises me. I see the headlights coming to a stop in front of the house. The Union sends limousines to our homes to drive us there. I don't really know why. I guess to make us feel like we are somewhat important. Or to make sure we aren't home so they can search our things for signs of treason and betrayal. We are not private citizens with rights, and they never let us forget it.

The limo has lights in the undercarriage to make it look as if it's hovering over the pavement. I walk outside towards it, Mulder following me with the bottle of beer still in his hands.

"Hey Scully, what do you say we skip the after prom party and just go right to the hotel room?" He says this, then I take the beer from him and put it back inside.

The driver gets out and waves a wand over us, then we get inside. There's another man in there already. He wore a white tuxedo in contrast to the deep brown of his skin. He smiles as us. "Ready for another one?"

"I'm ready for the unregulated alcohol," Mulder says. There's an ice bucket filled with wine and beer in the center of the seats. He takes a beer and opens it, his gestures exaggerated, as he stares at me in defiance.

"Dana Scully, FBI," I say, as I hold out my hand to the man.

"James Nichols, CIA," he replies as he shakes my hand.

The limo makes a few more stops and the seats fill with men and women from all over: NSA, CIA, ATF, DHS, IRS, DEA, EPA. An alphabet soup of acronyms. I can't remember all of them. Some of them I remember from years past, but we are mostly strangers. I wonder to myself if Doggett and Monica feel this way when they go to their banquet. If they go at all.

All of us make our introductions as the limo merges on I-77 from 81, headed towards the former Carolinas. Of all the things the Union preserved, it was interstate numbers. Highways have barely changed at all.

Someone started talking out the ridiculousness of it all. How we are guilted and forced into this recognition, only to be told that our mismanagement of the old establishment is what makes the Union so great. That's the point of this after all: thank you for your service, but you fucked everything up. Thank you for letting us fix it.

The DHS guy pulls out a bottle of pills. "I know a way to make it more bearable."

I can tell from the color of the bottle that they are illegal. The bottle is passed around. I hold the yellow pill between my fingers, conjuring up my medical training. I don't know what it is. What does it matter? There are no drug tests for us. I chase my pill with a glass of wine and hand the bottle to Mulder. He took one, too.

After that, things started to get weird.

We all sat at the same table. As soon as each of them, The Big Four, came on the screens to give us some kind of backhanded tribute, I started to laugh. It was uncontrollable. I pressed my hands to my mouth to stop it, but I couldn't help it. Everyone else begins to laugh with me. James Nichols, CIA, holds up his glass, filled to the brim with gin. "To the Republic, for which it stands!"

"One nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all!" We reply and roar with laughter.

I felt good. I felt alive. There was a buzzing in my head, like a live, electric wire that wove its way into each part of my body. At some point, a steward came over to tell us to quiet down. I don't know what I said to him, but his face reddened as he walked away.

I start to get dizzy so I leave the main room, and wander outside. I got a cigarette from someone. A real one. The smoke hits the back of my throat, and I can feel it sting, coating my lungs. It was incredible. I stare up at the sky. The stars looked too big, twinkling rose-gold. I remember thinking about if they were real. I couldn't take my eyes off them. I was still staring and smoking when Mulder comes out. His eyes are dilated black, a thin line of blue around it, like an eerie eclipse. I know mine are just the same. He turns me around and runs his fingers down my back. I gasped at how it felt. A warmth spreads up from between my legs. It shocks me.

He rests his hand on the middle, where my tattoo is. The back comes down low on my dress. My hair usually covers it. I'd forgotten about it.

"Let's go somewhere," he says, taking my hand.

We run off. I remove my shoes, my bare feet slapping against pavement as he takes me to one of the limos. We get inside, breathless, laughing. He gives the driver a bunch of dollar bills and instructs him to take us into one of the nearby cities. I don't know how much. I forget who replaced who. Lincoln, Washington, and Hamilton are gone. It's Toussaint-Louverture, Guadalupe Victoria, and Macdonald now.

"What -," I started to say, but he puts his fingers on my lips, then on his.

"Shhh! It's a secret."

"Oh. A secret," I say, then we giggle at this conspiracy, this secret mission.

The driver pulls us up to a tattoo parlor. I remember Mulder's coat around my shoulders because I started to get cold. I watched him as they shaved his arm, then applied the stencil. The needle buzzes to life as it begins to work on the outline. He turns to look at me, feigning pain, but I know it doesn't hurt. They had to have seen our eyes, knew we were not in the right of frame of mind, knew we were under the influence of something.

A girl walks into the room, her hair was a rainbow, metal rings around her lips and eyebrows.

"Look at that one!" I said and pointed. She sticks her middle finger up at me, and both of us just laugh.

"Hold still," the irritated tattoo guy said. He changed colors to fill in the red.

Somehow we got back home. I think there was more laughing at nothing, more drinking. Some of my memories are blurry. I unbuttoned his shirt, unraveled the bandage. He held his arm up to my back in the mirror.

"There it is," he said.

It's exactly the same as mine, colors and all. I turn to him and press my hands against his chest.

"You feel different," I said.

"I am different."

We both inhale, exhale. I know it's the pills that's creating this tingling heat, the dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine zapping inside our skulls. Everything is enhanced. I push him down onto the bed, he breathes hard, his chest rising and falling. He puts his hands around my waist, leaning his head against me. He slides a hand up my dress.

It goes up. I'm trembling.

It's never been like this.

He says my name. Over and over again. It doesn't sound like him. Over and over again.

Up more.

Then he stops.

I felt like I was out of my body, watching from the corner of the room, as I sat on top of him, pinning his hands over his head. He's squirming, impatient. My dress came off at some point, it was ripped in a way that can't be repaired, so I'll have to get another.

I'm not sure how many times, but it was more than once. More than twice. I was sore later. Where did he end, and where did I begin? We peel away all the layers, exposing them, until we are at the beginning of it all. I don't think about anything else, I don't think at all. I receive. I am burning flesh, and it converges at the white-hot point where he enters me. He sucks in his breath, hissing through his teeth. I must have said things to him. I don't know what. I'd be embarrassed about it now. It drives him; it makes him insane with lust. I just remember it wasn't enough. As soon as I am satiated, I want more. The layers have been ripped away, and it's just us.

Everywhere. We were everywhere. It's never been like this. The molecules inside me burst. I grip his face, his black eyes a swelling abyss as they disappear into mine. He brushes my hair from my forehead. It was pulled down at some point. It sticks to the sweat on my face, on my neck. We lay there, catching our breaths, watching each other.

It's never been like this.

He took my hand and put it against his chest. His heart hammering away as if it wanted out.

"This," he said. "It's this."

I'm still trying to catch my breath. I'm lost in something, and I can't think of any words.

"This is where it began," he said.

I nod like I understand, but I'm on the verge of something. Like I might start another giggling fit or something equally inappropriate. Was I starting to come down?

But I don't laugh. I lay there with him, watching the light come through the curtains. I stare at him and he stares back at me. I don't want to take my eyes away. I'm afraid he'll disappear. I rub my fingers over the raised skin of his arm.

"You're a part of me now," he says. "Forever you are a part of me."

That's when I cry, rolling onto my back, sobbing like a maniac, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. He pulls me into his arms until I'm silent. Until there's nothing at all, but him. I should have said it, but the moment has passed. He is a part of me, too. Forever a part of me. Except he doesn't have forever.


	14. Chapter 14

There was black, then there was light. Bright light. Stinging light.

It hurt his eyes. He let them adjust.

When he tried again, opening his eyes slowly, a panic smashed into him, taking away his breath. There was a beeping sound, increasing in frequency somewhere.

"Lay back down."

The voice was familiar, but slightly distorted like it had been artificially slowed. William didn't listen to it. He started pulling at things that were stuck to him, that were under his skin.

"I said lay back down!"

Sam's face came into view and William thrashed a little as he tried to pull a needle out of his arm. It hurt.

"William! Stop that!"

 _WILLIAM!_

That's what it was. That's what had happened. It's clear now. All of it.

He tries to sit up, but the rush to his head forces him to lay back down. Sam's hands are on his arms.

"You can't leave," he hisses, his voice still distorted. "Not now."

William looks around. He's in a hospital. How did he get here? He was on the floor, he remembered that, he couldn't hear anything except…it was like the sound of death, of Hell; the screeching and yowling of millions in torment.

"I don't know what happened," Sam was saying, his bug-eyed glasses looking down at him. "You had some kind of seizure. There was blood all over your face."

William willed himself to sit up again, but he was too weak, and Sam had him pinned.

"I'm going to go get a nurse. She can plug all this crap back into you. I'll just say you fell out, okay?"

"Where is she?" William asked, weakly. He was afraid of the answer.

Sam's eyes softened, his cheeks red. He looked down for a minute. "Promise you won't try to get up again?"

"Okay."

Sam unpinned him and sat down on the bed. "They had to try and sedate her again. Julian went in and told them to just get a blood sample. Anything. I guess she, she was just too frightened, under too much stress, then seeing you…she must have done something. You know," he gestured to his head. "One of the technicians, she was bleeding from everywhere. I don't think she's going to make it."

William's eyes were too dry and he was too drugged for tears. "So, it was a failure? Are they going to make me bring her back?"

"She's, um…like I said it must have been fear and stress," he took a deep breath. "She went into labor."

The words echoed around the room in Sam's distorted voice. William sat up then, no longer weak, no longer dizzy. Sam tried to hold him down again, but William pushed him away. He jerked the needle from his hand, a tiny spurt of blood came out.

Sam moved by the door to block him. "What are you going to do? She saw."

"Give me your clothes," William said.

"William, she saw you. You really can't think – "

"Give me your fucking clothes!" William's voice blared around the room, as if he'd spoken through a megaphone; a glass by the bed shattered and the lenses in Sam's glasses exploded. Sam groaned, stumbling forwards, eyes wide as blood trickled down his cheeks. William took his head in both hands and slammed it against the wall. He watched Sam slide down the wall, unconscious, to the floor. William's veins throbbed with adrenaline and rage as he took off Sam's clothes, changed into them, put Sam in the bed, and then walked out. Out of the room, out of the hospital, whining red sirens pulling up to the doors made his ears ache with pain. He covered them from the harsh sound as he ran out of the lot out towards the train station.

Halfway there he stopped to vomit, then he listened for her. He cycled through frequencies, but she wasn't there. She wasn't dead. Neither one of them were dead, he could sense that. But she wasn't there; she was "off."

He took out Sam's phone to look for the tracking application. All Old Republicans were tracked, except for the ones that served the Union. He needed to see where his parents were, if they were home. He couldn't imagine they'd be anywhere else, but he had to see if his dad had returned home. He boarded the train to the East Region, pulling the coat around him, his body shook violently as withdrawals from the pain medication began. All the sounds of the computerized announcements and doors shutting hurt too much. He found a tissue in the coat pocket, ripped it up, and stuffed it in his ears. His hands shook as he tapped through the application making him tap the wrong icons and having to go back over and over. He cursed with impatience. At last he found them, but they were not at home. He expanded the screen so the building name would show: The Exhibition Hall.

What were they doing there?

It didn't matter, he decided. Both their dots were together, which meant his father had come back. He'd be there in just a few hours, and maybe by then the withdrawal symptoms would stop and he could come up with something to tell them without actually lying.

* * *

 _[Recording resumed, 1:37am]_

 **DS:** I'm sorry I keep making you come back like this. It just gets into my head, and I can't sleep.

 **AL:** It's okay, Dana. This is your story.

 **DS:** You don't need to go through your whole thing. I agree. I agree to be recorded.

 **AL:** Okay.

 **DS:** So…that day, the day William came to us, wanting our help finding Emily…I didn't know, you know. I didn't know the extent of it at that time. We only knew he'd taken her somewhere because he'd been threatened. He found her through, um, through—

 **AL:** Telepathy?

 **DS:** Yeah. Mulder and I had been up the night before. We, um, it was a strange night. A long night. So, we were disoriented, and I can't remember everything. His ears were bleeding, bloody tissues coming out of them. We found her in a hospital, near the North/East border. I guess she'd just been dumped there by those people, like she'd been dumped out in Barbados.

 **AL:** I can't imagine anyone in the government doing such a thing to anyone.

 **DS:** She was out when we got there, sedated. They took Mary to an incubator. I yelled at everyone, I remember, like I was the only doctor in the room. I lay there next to her until she woke up. She was hysterical. I don't know if she understood where she was. She was screaming for William, just over and over.

 **AL:** Where was William?

 **DS:** I don't know. Mulder went to look for him, but he just left. I don't know where he went or why. It was cold all that day, it snowed a little. There was a storm coming, I think. So, Mulder and I had to go get everything. She never had a baby shower or anything. I thought he would refuse, but where else could she have gone? We put her and Mary in this tiny extra room we had. It was just enough room. Our house seemed big until they were there, then it felt too small.

 **AL:** You lost contact with William then?

 **DS:** Yeah. No. I saw him another time after that. Then not again until Mulder died.

* * *

In her dream, Emily enters the cathedral. It's the old one, before a drug gang ransacked it. She walks up the aisle, a veil of black lace over her face. Through it she can see the Holy Virgin, above her is the Savior. The fabric drags over the stone with a hushed skimming sound. There's a throbbing sound coming from somewhere, like a bass. But is it coming from inside her or outside her? What is that other sound? A buzzing, like thousands of bees buzzing slightly off pitch.

 _Emily!_

He's trying to get in, but he can't come in here. This is her sanctuary. This is hers.

 _Emily!_

His voice is jarring, a sudden volume increase in her ears.

She walks up the aisle, looking at black lace candlelight. Black lace Mary. Black lace Jesus. She kneels down, and prostrates herself, arms reaching, fingers outstretched.

"What have you come here for?"

It's Sister Louisa. She says it in English, but there is no language here. There is no pain. Emily turns her head to see her, standing to the side of the altar, her smile kind.

"I don't know what to do," Emily says.

Sister Louisa has switched to the other side.

 _Emily!_

"I don't know how go on," Emily says.

"Pray to the One that has loved you. Loved you before you were born, loved you as He died, loves you even now." Her lips don't move, her smile stays. Her voice like bells, like ocean waves, like spinning planets.

"But I wasn't born."

"You have a mother. God gave you life. In that way, you were born."

Sister Louisa moves behind her.

"You don't know what I have done." Emily's voice is layered echoes, a sigh, a heaving breath.

"It is not for me to know. It is for the One that knew you before you were flesh. The One that offers mercy."

 _Emily!_

He can't get in. He's panicked because his strength is waning, a silver-white slice of moon, dissipating, losing to darkness. It comes back, it fades away, a never-ending cycle. She can't keep the thought away: his hands against hers, the exchange of heat and energy. Their power. His face, magnified. His face close to hers. The love between them, melting and flowing, a warm tide at her feet.

Back, she would lay, forward he would come.

He wasn't vulgar. He wasn't obscene. He gave to her, and she to him.

 _Keep your eyes on mine._

"How can I forgive when I am unforgivable?" Emily is on her knees, pulling the veil from her face.

"Forgive as you have been forgiven. Forgive as He forgave those who betrayed and executed Him."

"Take me with you! Take me to Him! I don't want to be here!"

Emily's words are lost in the expanse of the sanctuary. Sister Louisa is gone. There's no one here. Emily rocks back and forth on her knees. The candles have all gone out, leaving her in darkness. The faint scent of incense pulls her back to a time when devotion and sacrifice were comforting, when it was all there was.

The palms of her hands begin to ache and she looks down to see her fists clenched, her nails digging in. As she opens them, she sees a circle of blood in each one. Blood comes out and up, it uncurls like tendrils of hair towards the ceiling. Then it spurts upwards, like a geyser, the blood sliding across the apex like flames. She follows it with her eyes.

 _Emily!_

She can feel it drain from her as she falls forward, weakness overcomes her.

 _Emily!_

His voice is a grumble of thunder now, rolling away over the horizon.

She's too weak. She's too tired to fight. And there is nothing now.

There is nothing.


	15. Chapter 15

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2027, Dana Scully_

I haven't had time to write in a while. I remember this with William – no sleep, always having to be "on." There are three of us; we should be able to manage it better than this, but Emily is not herself. She's here, but she's not. She's a shell, automatic; something has left her. She goes through the motions, but she's not engaged in any of it.

I thought it must be post-partum depression. She goes to Mary when she's hungry, but…she stares out of the windows for hours. I see her doing it when I wake up and before I go to bed. She didn't bathe for a week. She hardly eats anything. I heard crying one day, and I thought it was Mary. But it was Emily, sitting in front of my bedroom mirror, her hands on it, crying hysterically. I pulled her away, and she fought me, reaching towards her reflection in desperation. I heard her one night, saying her prayers in Spanish, kneeling in front of a crucifix. She was crying then, but it was silent. Tears coming down her face, her voice robotic. I went in and knelt down with her, to pray with her. I don't know if she knew I was there.

I know what is hurting her. Or, rather, I'm afraid that I know the real reason. Does she know all of it? Does she know he had a choice? Because he did. Me or her, and he chose her. She must know. If they can communicate with each other, read each other's thoughts, then she must know that. I haven't asked her or talked about it with her. But wouldn't she know? How can she still need him so much after all of that?

Because I know now. I know all of it.

I went up to their home to get all her things. William had already packed it all up, ready to go.

"You could have let me do this," I said to him

"I knew you would come eventually," he said, staring to the fireplace. There was no fire in there. It was cold and dark in the middle of the day. "I knew you'd keep her there, with you."

"She wanted to be with us," I said, pulling up a suitcase. "You have no right at all to be angry about it."

He stood up and came over to me, grabbing my shoulders.

"They said it would kill you," his eyes are pleading with me, they're red and swollen. "I didn't want it to kill you."

"Nothing can kill me!" I shout it. It echoes off the ceiling back down to our ears.

I suppose now that I've said it out loud, I should accept it: nothing can kill me. Whatever they would have done, I would have survived. Cancer, viruses, bullets, carnivorous plants, abductions, childbirth. I have survived it.

He looks down at me. He wants me to understand, but I don't. I don't at all.

I start taking each suitcase out, one by one, to the car.

"What were they going to give you?" I ask him before I leave.

He says nothing, staring back into the dark fireplace again.

"You actually had three choices: me, her, or neither of us. They must have promised you with something in return or threatened you in some way."

"They knew about us," his mind seems to go back for a minute, leaving now, and going back. "They knew we'd…about…Mary. And they were going to pay me. Or make some kind of fund. I was going to use it for Mary. And for all of us to leave the Union." He looks up at me. " _All_ of us."

Money and fear. A double headed monster that can motivate anyone to do anything. Even the most level-headed, reasonable people have succumbed. I know that I have. He's young still; he doesn't know things yet. But it doesn't fit here; I can't empathize.

He puts his head in his hands. "It would have killed you."

"You don't think they would have killed her? Or Mary? Then blamed it on some accident?" I walked over to him, standing front of him so he has to look at me. "I _know_ these kinds of people. I know what their promises are worth. _That_ has not changed."

He says nothing.

I go to leave and pause there at the door. I wait for him to say something. Please say something I can take with me. Give me hope. Is this really all I'm going to get? Are we really going to part like this?

He comes over to me and puts something in my hand, a rosary. The beads are hand-carved, the cross sculpted from clay.

"Mother," he says to me, smiling at me, the warmth radiates. "My mother."

He wraps me up in a hug then. He's so tall, my face is against his chest. I just stand there. I don't hug back. I don't know if I can.

He walks up the stairs, goes into a room, and shuts the door.

I drive all the way back, surrounded by luggage, unsteady and shifting all over the seats. I pull out the rosary. It's rustic. Made with care. Made with love.

"Son," I say to no one. "My son."

* * *

"We'll have to wait," William said, taking his eyes away from the telescope.

The stars literally had to be aligned for this. Orion's Belt would need to be further South, a trivial distance from where he looked, but it made an enormous difference out there.

Everyone sighs at once, annoyed, except Madison. She's passed out on a lawn chair, her mouth open in a haphazard O, the neck of the bottle still clenched in her fist.

"We have to do it right," William said to them. "We are passing this on. We are the New Genesis, and it has to be done _our_ way."

"Gen-ah-sis!" Tamryn and Timothy shout, then giggle.

"I'm going inside," Eve says, pressing her hands into her lower back, waddling back to the house.

"Me, too," Ephraim says as he follows her, taking Sophia's hand.

"Gen-ah-sis!" The twins repeat, laughing.

They all start going back in, except for William, Emily, Mary, and drunk Madison. William sees Mary looking at Madison, and he can feel her: the uptick in her heart rate, the temperature in her body rising. The rage.

She's staring at Madison without blinking, her eyes glow in the night like cat's eyes. If Mary ever went homicidal, Madison would the first to go, he was sure of that. As long as Madison was still living, then the rest of them were okay. That is, if she wasn't trying to kill Madison already; slowly twisting her organs, snipping capillaries in half. Bit by bit, a slow death.

"It might still work," Emily says, looking up at the sky.

"We can't afford _might_ ," William replies. "It _must_ work."

Emily goes over to William, linking her arm in his.

"Gen-ah-sis!" They hear it from inside and Sophia telling them to stop it.

Mary's unearthly eyes are looking at them now, at her parents, at her mother and her father. William looks down; he hates looking at her eyes.

"I'm glad you're here," he says, but he knows she can see inside him. She can tell he's more afraid than glad.

She says nothing. She blinks slowly, watching them.

"I saw you," William began. "On TV, um…with the SRP. That was well done, I think." He looks from Emily to Mary. "I think it was well done this time."

Mary turns her head, looking at him sideways, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Weren't you so proud?"

"I'm always proud of you."

Mary walks towards them, but her are eyes on his. It burns. The power in her is tremendous. Without her, they couldn't do it. She knows this, he can see it flashing in her mind: without her, they are only halfway there. Without her, they would fail. It would have been catastrophic.

She stops in front of them a few inches away, looking from Emily to William. A tall silhouette in green, blending in with the pine trees behind her, M. SCULLY in black thread sewn into a white patch.

"When she landed in Uruguay," Mary says, smiling. She's perfection when she smiles. "We escorted her to the capitol."

"Yeah," William replies, smiling back. He can feel Emily's arm tightening around his, a warning. "I thought the ceremony was nice."

Mary's smile deepens. "That. Was not me."

A breeze comes through. Madison turns over on her stomach, dropping her empty bottle on the grass.

"I was sent to the islands." Her voice is a smooth alto. It reminds him of Lauren Bacall or Bette Davis, consonants clipped, vowels rounded in the Trans-Regional style they're taught at the academy. "Hurricane Florence. I was there assisting with evacuations."

Emily looks at William, shaking her head slightly. _She was not there! That wasn't her. I told you this!_

"Oh." When would he ever say the right thing? Would there ever be a time when she would forgive him? And how could he confuse his own daughter with some other red-headed woman? It was stupid, pathetic.

"And yes," Mary says, looking over at Madison, then back at William, leaning in confidentially. "Yes, she would be the first to go."

She turns to leave them, walking back inside.

"Gen-ah-sis!" They hear it as she opens the door, Ephraim and Sophia telling them to be quiet.

Emily leans her chin on his shoulder, pulling him close. He returns her embrace, laying his head on top of hers, breathing in the scent of her hair.

"And then I'd be next," he says quietly.

The yard is silent except for Madison mumbling incoherently in her sleep, and a warm breeze rustling through the pines.


	16. Chapter 16

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2028, Dana Scully_

I got Emily a prescription for an SSNRI. She can't get them herself yet. I thought for a while they were helping, because she started eating more. She'd take Mary outside in the yard, singing to her in Spanish. But one day I went into her room and asked her if she wanted to come with me to take Mary for a walk. She lay there in the bed, deflated, her fists clenching the covers. I asked her again, and she wearily turned away from me, covering herself with the blankets.

I started counting knives, razors, and any kind of pill in the house. I started hiding things. I'm not worried about Mary, or me, or Mulder. I want her to talk to me. I want her to know she can be open with me; she can tell me. I try to think about them, their connection, but I don't want to think about them like that. I don't want that to enter into my thoughts. But I want to understand, I want to help.

One night I was up late. Too late. I'm not sure what I was doing. Writing maybe. Mary must have been sleeping through the night for once. I see Emily leave her room in her nightgown, she walks outside slowly, as if she's in some kind of trance. I follow her, and watch her as she goes out into the yard.

There's a slight slope down towards the tree line. I watch her from the window as she smooths down her nightgown and sits down on the slope. She carefully pulls her hair over her shoulder and lays down. I can see the top of her head from where I stand. Smooth, shiny, coppery. I wish I could go inside it; I wish I could see her thoughts.

I start to go out to her, but I hear the back door open and Mulder goes out there. He looks down at her for a minute, then he sits next to her and lays down, too. I open the window a little. I can see the tops of both their heads. It looks odd; grey-brown and copper on green.

"What are we looking for?" He asks her in his Agent Voice. Calm, clinical, and trained.

"Angels," she says, after a time.

"You believe there are angels out there?"

"I want to believe."

They say nothing for a minute, a breeze goes through their hair.

"I do, too," he says.

"I belong out there," she says, her voice low, measured. "I want to return. I want them to come for me."

"Why?"

Another breeze. I hold my breath.

"I can't do it," her voice cracks with emotion. It's haunted. It's on an edge, faltering, slipping. "I cannot live…I cannot live without him!"

I think: I need to go out there now. He's going to say something she doesn't need to hear. Something unhelpful. I can't see their faces, but I hear her sniffing. Her body shudders from the turmoil in her heart. It hurts me. I can almost feel it, too. He takes his hand from his chest and reaches over to take hers, tightening his fingers around hers.

I wait for a second. Several seconds.

I watch top of his head turn.

"If anything comes out of that sky to take you away, then they will have to take me, too." He lifts up their hands. "Because I'm not planning on letting you go."

I watch her head turn to look at him. I wished I could have seen their faces, the exchange between them. They both look up at the sky in silence. Emily has stopped crying. I look up there, too. Somewhere up there are her two fathers. That's where they came from, isn't it? They took their DNA, they took mine, and they spliced and melded it all together to make her. They didn't expect her to live. They didn't expect her to survive and have a child of her own. She was a mistake. A botched experiment.

I decide to leave the window, because this is their moment; a father/daughter moment. I sit up in bed later and try to think. I try to take it apart and put it back together again: she cannot live without him. She'd rather die. Mary isn't enough. We are not enough. This isn't sustainable. What do I do with this? She must know. She would have to know all of it. I lay it out clearly; the facts, what I know, what happened. There are pieces missing and that troubles me, but this is the result. There's got to be more to this, more that I don't know. Are they still communicating with each other somehow?

A few days later, I see her out there again in the middle of the day. She was sitting up, though. I go out and sit next to her. She's pulling at the ends of her hair, pulling apart split ends. She doesn't notice me at first. When she does, she gets up.

"I'll go in with Mary," she whispers.

"No," I tell her, taking her hand. "Mary's fine. Mulder's inside."

Reluctantly, she sits back down and continues stroking her hair, braiding and unbraiding, until she tires of it, putting her hands in her lap. Is she going to talk to me? Is she going to confide in me?

I start to remember her as a little girl. I remember the sick little girl I wanted to save. I remember her face as I took off my necklace and gave it to her. I remember her looking up at me, and I thought she was Melissa's daughter, the connection between us in her eyes.

But she was mine. My heart swells with pride. She's mine.

I watch her shut her eyes now, squeezing them shut. Her shoulders shake as loud cries erupt from her mouth. She puts up a hand to cover them, and I pull her over to me. Her head stays on my shoulder until my blouse is soaked with her tears, until the storm passes, and she is calm again. I take her inside with me. I wipe her face, wipe away her tears. I brush her hair. I make her some tea. I set her down on the couch, and I go get Mary. I put Mary in her arms, and I sit down next them.

The moment consumes me; the three of us there together. Mothers and daughters. It's a dream; it's a miracle. How could anything be wrong with any of it?

Mary grasps Emily's finger, holding on. She makes a joyful sound, and Emily smiles down at her. She looks up at me, understanding, remembering. The familiarity is there again.

"Thank you, mama," she says.

I kiss the top of her head and sit there with them for a long time. They're all I need to see, all I need to know. This is enough right now.

I don't say it, but I think it: Daughter. My daughter.

* * *

 **DS:** We had Mary's baptism. I guess I didn't really needed to invite so many people, but I thought maybe it would help Emily. She needed to feel loved.

 **AL:** Who was there?

 **DS:** Well, Mulder and me. Monica and Doggett. I invited Skinner. Walter Skinner. I told you about him, right?

 **AL:** Yeah.

 **DS:** He went through a lot of trouble to get here. He got out before the transition. He went to Denmark, I think. Since he wasn't a citizen, he couldn't fly into the Union. So, he flew down to Guatemala and we had to find a citizen he could come in with. We asked William's adopted father, David, and after going through all that trouble, I thought he should be there, too.

 _Pause. AL's phone chimes._

He didn't know about Emily or Mary. I guess William either stopped talking to him or just left all of that out. Skinner was walking with a cane by then. He looked so different from what I remembered. He was just so old and fragile. He stayed with us for a while, after all that mess to get in, I guess he just figured he should stay a while.

 **AL:** Do you think –

 **DS:** That was the last time we were all together. I guess it really was. The last time I was with all my friends, the people I trusted. Skinner died a few years after that. Then Doggett was next. Then Mulder.

 **AL:** Can you talk about that? About Mulder dying?

 **DS:** Well…

 **AL:** I know it's hard for you. I know that –

 **DS:** Yes, it's hard. He's all I've, I've…um…

 _Sounds of DS getting up and walking around the room._

I thought…that it would have to be a big thing, a great thing to bring a man like that down. He survived so much. The things that we went through, what we saw, all these near-death moments…it would have to be something big. An asteroid coming out of the sky. Something like that.

 _Long pause._

But it was a little thing. Tiny. He bent down one day to tie his shoe and a blood vessel exploded in his head. Then it just got worse from there. That one thing, that one little thing, caused so much in such a short time.

 **AL:** Were you with him?

 **DS:** Yes.

 **AL:** Were William and Emily there?

 **DS:** Yes. They…he spoke with them before. I wasn't in the room. They, um, each had a moment with him alone. I don't know what they said to each other, but he forgave them. I know that much. He loved them both. He really did. After all that mess, after all they did, what William did, he loved them so much.

 **AL:** Is he buried in the Old Republic Memorial?

 **DS:** Yes. Well…not exactly. He changed his Will several times after our Bureau days. We both have had one since then. They suggested that we do because of the nature of our job. At first it was cryogenics. He kept it that way for a while, then he changed it to cremation. He never wanted to be buried. He was once…I think it bothered him: being buried and waking back up alive. So, he decided on the Resin.

 **AL:** Oh, I've heard of that. My grandparents want to do that, placed in it holding hands.

 **DS:** Yeah. Such a tiny thing…he deserved something bigger. He deserved something…

 _Sounds of DS intermittently walking around followed by long silence._

 **AL:** I can come back.

 **DS:** No. Stay. Please stay with me, Anne.

 **AL:** Of course I'll stay. Anything you need, Dana.

* * *

Anne walked across the university campus, her phone chiming away. It was three in the morning, quiet and dark on a week night. She looked at her phone and swore. It was him again, Dr. Wells, wanting the interviews. They'd been due two days ago, but she'd been putting him off. Didn't he ever go to sleep?

She took the elevator up to the third floor and unlocked the lab door. She hated leaving Dana Scully alone after making her relive so much grief. Anne had waited until she fell asleep, let herself out, and came straight here. She was going to have to do this now before she lost her nerve. Because right now, right at this minute, she had the power to do something.

The archivists had brought in and refurbished about a dozen laptops and desktops from the early Millennium. The one Anne used was from 2006, and it was terrible; slow, and just all around awful. But it was the only one compatible with her recorder. Her knees bounced up and down with impatience as she booted up the laptop and waited to log on. How did people put up with this shit back then?

Her phone chimed again and she took it out of her bag.

 _Can you bring them by at 8?_

Anne hesitated a minute. She could just pretend she'd gone home and gone to sleep, then pretend she hadn't gotten his message until later. Ooops. I'm sorry. I was very tired. We were up late again talking. Silly me. Silly, stupid Anne.

When the log in screen came up, she typed in everything, irritated at how slow and complicated it was. People did things so dumb back then. She pulled out her recorder and opened the editing software. Her phone chimed again.

 _Where are you? Are you in the lab?_

Anne froze.

There were no windows in here, but she'd left the door open, the light spilling into the hallway. She quickly got up and closed the door, locking it. Did he see her? Was he following her now? What the hell was wrong with him? Hasn't this poor woman been through enough?

She let the recorder load the files into the program, then put in her earbuds to listen. When she got to the spot, she highlighted the sound waves and played it again. Usually she muted anything that needed to be redacted, but this entire part would have to be cut out and the two unmatched pieces blended together perfectly. She listened to Dana Scully's voice, some background noise, and there was the faint sound of the trains, too. Miles away, but the recorder had picked them up anyway. That was important. She was going to have to cut it at just the right time. She moved the highlighted portion around until she was sure she could cut and blend without it being noticed. Next time maybe she could turn the recorder off without Dana noticing, and she wouldn't have to do this again.

Her finger hovered over the delete key. Once this was done, there was no going back. Dr. Wells had drilled that into their heads: once it's gone, it's gone forever. Her phone chimed again, and she picked it up and threw it against the door. The case popped off and the screen cracked as it shut off.

Motherfucker.

Enough of this.

She sat there and stared at the sound waves for a minute. She was getting ready to make a decision that she shouldn't have to make. What if he can tell? What if she doesn't blend it right and he knows she took out something? He would just remove her from the project and replace her with someone else, right? That's really all he can do. He'd call her an idiot, yell at her, and remove her. But he still wouldn't have this.

Anne shut her eyes for a minute and turned away from the screen. Please, please, please let this be the right and honorable thing. She turned back, opened her eyes, and pressed delete.


	17. Chapter 17

**_LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT_**

 ** _OF_**

 ** _FOX WILLIAM MULDER_**

 _I,_ _Fox William Mulder_ _, resident of the_ _East Region_ _of the_ _North American Union , __being of sound mind, not acting under duress or undue influence, and fully understanding the nature and extent of all my property and of this disposition thereof, do hereby make, publish, and declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, on this day of_ _16_ _th,_ _in the month of_ _October,_ _in the year 20_ _39_ _. I hereby revoke any and all other wills and codicils heretofore made by me._

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2041, Dana Scully_

I called them and we all decided that it was best if it was just us. No grandchildren, just us. I sent a message to Monica so she'd have enough time to get a flight in. I wished that Doggett and Skinner were around still. I wish I had everyone here with me.

William went in first, then Emily. I don't know how long they were each in there with him. I don't know what was said, but they both looked at peace when they came out. Resolved. They sit down together after, affectionate, and loving. I don't know what's happened there, and it does nothing to me. I don't feel bad about it, like I should, it does nothing to me.

* * *

 _I._ ** _PERSONAL REPRESENTATIVE_**

 _I nominate and appoint my beloved wife, partner, and best friend_ _Dana Katherine_ _as Personal Representative of my estate, real property, intellectual property, and overseer of the remainder of my pension. I leave her one half of my pension, to be paid in full upon my death, and all of my intellectual property, seizured and free, as the NAU allows._

* * *

I go in to him. I lay down next to him, putting my hand over his heart. It's slow, irregular. How many times have I done this? My ear has been there, too. My lips. There's a scar there, a bullet wound. My fingers brush over it as I lay there with him to see him out. So he's not alone, so he can leave us in love, and return…to where? That's not the time I want to be having those thoughts. I needed to be there, right there, right now, because it was going to be the last time. God help me, this is the last time.

* * *

 _II._ ** _DISPOSITION OF PROPERTY_**

 _I devise and bequeath my property, both real and personal and whatever situated, as follows:_

 _I leave_ _William Fox_ _of the_ _North Region, NAU_ _as my_ _Son_ _with the following: one quarter of my pension, paid in full upon my death; my files, electronic and paper, for personal or archival use; and my father's files for personal use._

* * *

I watch him, I count his heartbeats, I count his breath. I remember things, I hear things, like hallucinations. He saved me. I saved him. Love and truth. Love and forgiveness. Patterns of our lives, winding through a maze of complexity only to unite at the end again and again. I love him. I have always loved him. When I stood in our office, my arms crossed, refusing and disbelieving, I loved him then. I loved him when he left me. I loved him when I left him. I want that time back. I want to cup it in my hands, breath it in, drink it, taste it, and let it thread through my veins, vivid with color and emotion all over again. Because there's nothing I would change. There's nothing I would change about him at all. From beginning to end, there is nothing but him and me. Nothing but us: alive, dying, saving, loving, fighting, in silence, in fear, in danger, from beginning to end. We shared ourselves, we shared our lives, we created life together, we created him in love. From beginning to end, there is nothing left but that: love.

He opens his eyes a little, I think he's going to try to say something, but he just looks at me. He knows I'm here. He knows I will be with him. He knows he is not alone.

* * *

 _I leave_ _Emily Gutierrez_ _of the_ _South Region, NAU_ _as my_ _Daughter_ _with the following: one quarter of my pension, paid in full upon my death; my mother's jewelry, photos, and personal papers for personal use._

* * *

I counted the days of his life: 29,167. Is that all? It should be millions. It should be more. Not enough; never enough. I stared at that number written on a piece of paper until it was blurry, until the lines looked as if they were moving, until my eyes dried out and turned red. 29,167. And how many of those days did we work together? How many did we spend in danger? How many did we spend as outlaws? How many did we spend apart? How many did we spend in love? Falling in love? Making love? Falling out of love? Then back in love again? How many? I want to count it out, divide it up, and have it all charted out like data. Because this is all I can do. I don't know what else to do. I must be useful in this way. I was always useful in this way. I liked the roles we played, until we didn't need them anymore. It was perfect. Perfect balance, all our lives, from beginning to end.

* * *

 _I leave_ _Ephraim Scott, Esther Anne, and Eve Lynn_ _of the_ _North Region, NAU_ _as my_ _Grandchildren_ _with the following: one third each of my FBI paraphernalia, badges, and memorabilia, divided up by their parents as they see fit, for personal use._

* * *

I don't know how long I was there with him before his heartbeats began to slow down and he started taking these great, gasping breaths. What did he see? Did he see anything? Did he hear anything? Was Samantha there, her arms open wide to welcome him? I kept my hand on his heart. I waited. I wanted to give him my breath. Give him more time with me, because I'm selfish. Make him linger here in pain so I can have just a few more seconds.

I listened to the last exhale. I take my hand away when his heart stops.

This is the last time.

* * *

 _Lastly, I request that my remains be interred in Resin, directed and prepared at the discretion of my beloved wife, partner, and best friend_ _Dana Katherine_ _, and that I be put to rest in the_ _Old Republic Memorial_ _alongside my companions and friends,_ _Walter Skinner_ _and_ _John Doggett._

* * *

He went in peace. He went in love. I can be grateful for that, can't I?

I watched them as they prepared him for the Resin. They were waiting outside. I stood there while they washed him and smoothed the gel over his skin.

"Ma'am, eyes open or closed?"

The gel makes his skin shiny. It's like he's just gone to sleep and he'll wake up tomorrow.

"Ma'am?"

I hold my breath. "Closed."

They gently close his eyes and sink him into the orange-amber liquid. It dilutes the color of the snake on his arm, eternally consuming itself. They seal the glass and pump out the air so the outer shell will harden properly. People choose all kinds of colors for that stuff now, but he didn't want anything weird. _Him_. Not wanting anything weird.

After they take him away, I stand there for a long time looking at where he was laying. I put my hand there. It's still warm.

And so. My eternity begins. Without him, it begins.

 _Now._

He called me his Touchstone. His Constant.

"And you are mine," I said. I see it all again, it replays, I rewind it, playing it back. I want to live it and breathe it again. Oh God, can I just go back to that, just for a minute? But no one who ever says that really means "just for a minute." They mean hours, days, weeks, a lifetime. All those moments of our lives, from beginning to end. I didn't want it to end. I wanted it to stay open forever, like a case file, like an X-file, unresolved, no end in sight. This is meaningless. This is cruel. They at least could have done it to him, what they did to me, to make me resistant to death. Why couldn't they have done it to him, too? 29,167 days are not enough. Not enough time for this, not for what we'd become together.

Much later, I come out and shut the door. I think Emily has left, but I found her asleep on the couch later. William has fallen asleep outside the door, laying there in the middle of the hall. I nearly trip over him. I sit down next to him, looking at him. Like this, from this angle, he looks like him, Mulder. He looks like his father, peacefully sleeping, his mouth open just a little. I guess he didn't want to leave me alone. I put my hand gently on his arm so I don't wake him up.

Fourteen years. I can see he's gotten older. Something around his jawline and his eyes. I haven't seen him in person in fourteen years. I lay down in front of him, watch him sleep. How many days left for him? For Emily? Are they like me? I should spend these days with them. No matter what they've done, I am their mother. I will always be that. And now, they are all I have left.


	18. Chapter 19

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 1999, Dana Scully_

We still haven't talked about it. I know that he wants to. I can see it in his face when he pauses before kissing me, looking at me, searching and questioning. I turn away because I don't want to talk. If we talk about it, then it becomes something. Something we'll have to acknowledge, discuss, and deconstruct. Something we'll have to face coming to an end. Because it will one day, won't it? We can't continue to be the same we've always been after this. Five years is a long time to wait. It's also a long time to love.

It's new, but it's not. It's fragile. We hold it carefully in our hands, protecting it, sheltering it, keeping it warm and safe. How badly did he want this to happen? Because it was me that started it. It's always me. I feel like I'm the weakest one because I initiate. And I don't want to talk about it. I just want to be with him, here, now, in this way, with his body against mine, his breath warm on my neck. Can't we just stay like this?

We're always quiet. At least until it becomes impossible to be quiet. I think we are both thinking there's someone watching or listening. Tiny cameras in light bulbs. Recording devices in the lampshades. It's possible. And if they are watching, if they are listening, what do they see? What do they hear?

Do they hear him whisper my name? _My_ name, Dana. I'm not Scully in these moments with him; I'm Dana. That changes it somehow, revealing something about him to me. Do they hear what we say to each other until I'm tightening and clenching around him? Do they watch his hands as they go up my back, grabbing my shoulders, and pulling me down so he can have more of me? Can they see me, opening up, taking all of him in as deep as I can? Can they see his hand, gripping mine as it builds up inside us? I wonder what we look like. I wonder if they can tell; if they can see the love between us as we breathe it in and taste it on each other's lips. Because it's there. I know it's there, warming the air around us. Wrapping us up, entwining us, and trapping us inside it. We don't need to say it to know this, to feel this, to want this.

If they can see, if they can hear, then they know what he and I already know: we can't exist without each other. We can't be apart. We've drowned inside it, we've let it consume us. It should be our greatest weakness, but I think it's our greatest strength. We'll fight harder now to keep this between us. We'll need each other more. It will be harder to keep us separated now.

Why does it need to be a discussion? Why does it need to be broken apart and analyzed? I want to be lost in it and never find my way out again. In those times when we are together, everything else disappears. It fades out, and we are the only two people in the world. I wish we really were. Nothing to distract us. Nothing to chase us. Nothing to deceive and manipulate us.

The truth is here. The truth is growing and expanding inside us. The truth is that we were put together for a reason, and that reason is clear now.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2041, Dana Scully_

I haven't cried yet.

Not at all, and I don't know why. I think all those times before has spoiled this for me. I keep thinking someone will call and say he's opened his eyes and he's alive. This isn't real. He's alive and well, like he has always been.

Monica and I boarded the train to the Center together. She takes my hand as we leave the East. It feels like my ring is cutting into her skin. I found my wedding ring and put it on. I haven't worn it in years, but now I feel like I should. I should never take it off again. I put it on and held my hand up, remembering that night. Remembering him calling me his wife. I closed my eyes and watched every second of that night in my memory. The only other people that were there have been dead a long time. I'm the only one left now. It's up to me to remember.

The train takes hours. It would be faster by plane, but the Union shut down all the airlines except for one, and I can't travel by air. In each tree, each building that passes by, I can see his face. I can hear his voice. How can this be real? Am I alive right now? I pinch the back of my hand and watch my skin pop back into place.

I am alive, and this is real.

I am a widow.

We approach the Center, and I can see robots that look like spiders crawling all over the wall. They're carving in citizen's names that have passed. People pay for that. They go to a website and click a few buttons. We can't do that. There's a special place set aside for us inside here, set in between fields of corn and cannabis. A place for Old Republicans to be looked at like artifacts. A museum.

We walk inside, and I know I won't be able to do it. I won't be able to go in there and see him, with Skinner and Doggett, hanging in suspension like prehistoric insects. I can't do it. Last time Monica and I were here, she broke down when she saw Doggett hanging there. She fell to her knees, crying, shaking with grief. People milling around, looking at the dead like we looked at Egyptian mummies, stared at us as I helped her up and took her out. I know how she feels now. The finality of it. It's a helpless feeling, an empty feeling.

We take an elevator down, because it's underground and the stairs take too long. It's cold down here, and our ears pop as the pressure changes. In the entrance there's the hallways to Canada and the United States to the left, and Mexico and the Caribbean Islands to the right. Monica walks down the US corridor. She's braver than me, she loved just as much as me, but I can't do it. I've seen dead bodies. I've cut them open and examined them. I could detach and compartmentalize as long as it wasn't someone I knew. As long as it wasn't someone I loved.

Emily and William are there. They stand when I walk into the chapel, tears in their eyes. They are looking at me expectantly, as if I'm going to say something, something profound to mark this occasion. But I can't. This can't be real. This can't be final. What do they want from me? He's gone. This is the last time.

I look past them and see a girl peeking out from a doorway. Shyly, cautiously. She looks familiar.

"Melissa?" I can't remember if I said it aloud or not.

She comes out of the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, her eyes cast down. It wasn't Melissa. Emily puts her arms around her, bringing her over to me.

"Mary, do you remember your grandmother?"

I do the math in my head. She's fourteen now. Fourteen, and already taller than me. Fourteen, and showing promise of beauty. Her hair has grown out from when they shaved it at the academy. They bring them in, take away their identity, their gender, their past, and then allow them to earn it back again. Her hair has lost the brassiness of her childhood and has grown in a cool burgundy. I would not have recognized her at all.

She looks up at me quickly, then back down again. "Hello."

Her eyes twinkle like starlight when the sky is clear and there's no other lights around, as if there's an entire Universe in each one. I'm amazed this is her. After too many years, I think about when she was born. I thought she'd be freakish.

Emily looks at her, tilting her head, nodding, urging her to do something.

Mary takes out a box wrapped up in a bow and gives it to me. Inside it is a necklace with two fishes joined together.

"It's Pisces," Mary says. "Because we have the same birthday."

I look at the necklace. It's gold with the two fish's eyes set with jewels.

"Yeah," I say to her. "We do. Thank you, Mary."

I look at her, and I want to hug her. But I don't know her at all. Mulder died without ever knowing her. When did he see her last? Why didn't I try? I should have at least tried to see her more. I should try now. Time passes by so fast, and I should know more than anyone how precious time is.

Mary smiles, but keeps her gaze down. Behind her and Emily, I see Madison and the triplets, the four of them in black, sitting in a corner. Madison is my daughter-in-law, and I don't even know her. Something's happened between William and her. They haven't said one word to each other since I've come in, and they don't even look at each other. She's scowling, but when her eyes meet mine there's sympathy there. She protects us with her silence, and I don't even know her. The triplets come over to me, and I can't tell which one is Eve and which one is Esther. They have their mother's eyes, brown and wide-set. Ephraim is easy to pick out. He looks like William probably did at his age. Not that I would know for sure.

They tell me hello, then look back at their mother. She nods at them. They each give me a rose and tell me they are sorry and that they love me. I don't know them either. William has sent me pictures of them, but I don't even know their birthday. How old are they now? Ten? Eleven? I feel guilty that I don't know my own grandchildren. I feel guilty that if I saw them out in a crowd, I would pass by them without even knowing. Why must children grow up? Why did I ignore everyone? They are here now, for me, and for a grandfather they barely knew. Yet, I've given little effort into seeing them. I feel horrible about it. It weighs me down. I've handled this all wrong.

Everyone is watching me. They expect something from me. They expect me to say something, but I have no words. I have no wisdom to share. I don't like how everyone is looking at me, feeling sorry for me, so I excuse myself and go outside. I stand there in the sun and find it annoying. Days like this should be cold and rainy. No sun, no singing birds, nothing going on as normal. Let everything stop today. Just for today.

Eventually, Monica comes out there and hands me her electronic cigarette.

"I thought you quit," I say to her.

She shrugs.

I take a drag from it. Then another. Then another. Electric tobacco, making my throat tingle and swell. What is this world we live in?

We stand there for a while, taking turns smoking, looking at the field across from the chapel where Old Republicans are buried. I see the Mexican flag on some grave stones. Canadian. American. Cuban. Jamaican. What is this world we live in?

"He looked peaceful," she says to me.

I see something out of the corner of my eye and I turn to look. In between two maples I see a woman standing there. She's dressed in back, a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. I shut my eyes for a second then look again, but she's gone. She looked familiar, but I can't place it. I'm still not even sure if I saw it. Am I hallucinating now?

"They all looked peaceful," Monica continued. "It wasn't so bad this time."

I look at her. I know that was hard for her, and I thank her for going in for me. I'm just not ready yet. I don't know if I ever will be ready.

My legs begin to feel weak, so I go sit down on a bench. Monica sits with me and we say nothing for a while. I can feel people watching us from inside. But they're not just people, they're my family. They are all here because of me. They are all a part of me. And I just sit out here, away from them, ignoring them. What's wrong with me?

"We're the only ones left, aren't we?" Monica asks.

I'm sure there are still FBI people living, but as for those we knew and worked with, we are the only ones left. Then there will just be one of us. I start to feel dizzy, and I take her hand. _One of us_. She's going to leave me one day, too. It's inevitable.

"Will you stay with me?" I beg her. "Please stay with me a while. I don't want to be alone."

She pulls me over to her, wrapping her arms around me. "Of course. As long as I can. I'll see if I can get a bereavement extension."

I think that might be when I'll finally start to cry, but my tears are frozen in my eyes. I can't. What's wrong with me?

We get up and go back inside. I have to know them. I need to know them, and they need to know me. My grandchildren, none of this, none of what Emily or William has done, is their fault. But I treated them like it was, didn't I? Mulder and I have four beautiful grandchildren, and I want to spend time with each one. If I can take something good out of this with me, then it must be this.


	19. Chapter 20

William lay in his bed, going over all the options in his head.

Option 1: Kill himself.

He had a plethora of ways available to him: pills, alcohol, kitchen knives, and he was sure his adopted father's rifle was still here somewhere. But he didn't know if it would actually work. He didn't know if he could actually die. If his mother cannot die, then maybe he inherited that from her. What a nightmare it would be to wake up after each attempt, only to find himself alive and well. He couldn't know for sure, though, and there was only one way to find out.

He got up and went into the shower. He turned the water hotter and hotter, until his skin turned a hateful shade of red.

Option 2: Disappear.

He could just leave. Absolutely no one would miss him. Japan owned Hawaii now, but he could learn Japanese. He was okay with volcanoes. He could change his appearance, grow a beard, and dye his hair. Growing a beard made him consider the Amish. The Union had left them alone for the most part, except for forcing them to replace half their crops with cannabis. It was rumored many Old Republicans had taken refuge in their communities. He was okay with farming fields of marijuana and speaking Pennsylvania Dutch. He could disappear, and never be remembered again. But the planning could take months.

He breathed in the steam as he got out, getting dressed, and wiped the steam from the mirror as he looked at himself. There was one other option.

Option 3: Deal with it. All of it.

He could take each consequence, one by one, break it apart, and face it. The worst of all was Emily. It hurt him the worst, because his mother was right: there was a third option that he was too cowardly to choose. He could have left after that meeting, taken Emily, and they could have gone somewhere else. Honduras probably. They would be there right now. Mary wouldn't have been born yet, and they'd be okay. They'd never be allowed back into the NAU again, and they'd never see their mother or his father again, but he'd have her. He'd have her trust and her love for the rest of his life.

Then there were his parents. He'd found them, fucked it all up, and now he was a stranger to them again. He'd behaved in the worst way any son could aside from killing them. He never wanted to see how his father looked at him with anger and disgust again. He would have to accept their feelings towards him.

Then there was Sam, Julian, and that poor technician. An innocent person was dead because of his stupidity and thoughtlessness. All these innocent people, people who'd done no wrong, all changed, all worse off because of him. The most innocent of all was Mary. She didn't ask for this. She didn't ask to be born into this and endure a life with certain heartache. Would Emily tell her? Would Mary ever know about him and what he and her mother were to each other?

Option 1 was looking better and better. It was the most reasonable solution. How does a person go on living with such a burden, with such a long list of sins and irreparable damage on their shoulders?

He stared at his reflection in the glass. He put his fingers there to touch it. Nothing but him and the glass. Cold, smooth glass. He saw a glimpse of her for a second, laughing.

 _Vain! I'm better than you!_

She was better than him. Better than him in every way possible except for one. She'd surrendered to it as well. At least _that_ was over now. Their love and shame would stay forever in the past. He took a deep breath and concentrated on his reflection, energy crackling around him until the mirror shattered. He carefully pulled out a shard of broken glass and examined it.

It would be so easy, and he wasn't scared of any pain. Maybe if he combined several methods together it would get the job done. Acetaminophen+alcohol+blood loss should equal death. He sat there for a long time on the bathroom floor examining each edge of the glass, contemplating, planning. Finally, he stood up and pulled out several bottles of pain killers from the cabinet. He dumped them all out on the floor, then went into the kitchen for liquor. There wasn't much left, but he would make it work. He gulped down handfuls of the white tablets, chasing each swallow with a drink of bourbon. With that done, he examined his wrists. Was it supposed to be a horizontal cut or vertical? Which one was supposed to be the most efficient? He debated for a while, then he saw the girl standing in the doorway. It startled him.

She had dark brown, curly hair. She wore a nightgown. It was dated. Vintage. She walked in and sat down next to him like she lived there. Like this was completely normal. Were the delusions starting already?

"Well?" She looked at him and nodded at the shard of glass.

He had it poised over his left wrist, the point resting just above his skin.

"You can tell a boy lives here," she said looking around. "It's so messy."

"What's happening?" He asked her.

There was something about her face, the shape of it, that was familiar to him.

"Go ahead," she nodded at his hand.

Right. Because a strange little girl wandering into his bathroom and sitting down next to him right before he slashed his wrists would be just thing to make him go through with it.

"I don't know who you are." He said it kind of like a question.

She sighed, taking a lock of her dark hair and twirling it through her fingers. "I'd guess I'd be your aunt."

Aunt? He didn't have any aunts. Not that he knew of.

"Well, come on then." She stood up holding out her hand to him.

"What's happening?"

"You're coming with me. This is what you want, isn't it?"

Right on cue, William started to feel sick, the pills and bourbon eating away at his stomach lining. "Where?"

"Into the starlight."

Starlight. He'd heard this before. A story someone told him about going to live in the starlight. But who? Who told him this and who was it that went? He was starting to shake, his stomach ached, his vision becoming cloudy.

She looked annoyed at his hesitation. "It's either stay here or come with me. This isn't a game."

Starlight. Where had he heard this before?

He tried to stand up, but his body wouldn't cooperate. Was it really happening this fast?

"Yes, it is happening this fast," she said. "Either you come with me or make yourself throw up." She nodded at the toilet.

William just sat there, trying to find the story in his memory. Starlight?

She sighed again, then came over to him, pushing his head over the toilet. "You're not ready. People who are ready don't just sit there."

"What-," William began.

"You'll be stuck here!" She urged him. She looked around, panic on her face, looking at something he couldn't see. "You have to make a choice right now. I won't be able to come back. You'll be stuck!"

William hesitated.

"William! They'll keep you stuck here! I won't be able to come back!" She was looking up in fear at something he couldn't see.

"Who? What-?"

"William!"

William inserted two fingers in his throat until the contents of his stomach came up. He retched over and over, then fell back on the floor. He lay there for a while, his throat burning from stomach acid. The room was empty now. She was gone. He looked up at the mirror. There were no cracks in it; no missing piece.

What just happened? Or didn't happen?

He gulped down a glass of water. Some of the pills and alcohol had seeped into this bloodstream, making him stumble on his way down the hall. He was going to get sick again. His father had given him some things, telling him that he wanted to make sure they were safe. Would he want all this back now?

William dumped the box out onto the floor, digging through it, then pulled out a photo album, dusty, some of the pages stuck together. He carefully peeled them apart, flipping through them. Pictures of his grandparents he recognized, then several of people he didn't know. Polaroids with ink written at the bottom of people's names and the year. Then he found it, peeling the pages apart carefully, he studied the photograph.

She must have been talking when the picture was taken, her mouth open a little as she looked at his father. His father was dressed in brown corduroy pants that flared out at the bottom and a deep red shirt, looking at her with a half-smile on his face. He couldn't have been more than eleven years old. She wasn't wearing a nightgown. Her dress had gigantic, colorful flowers on it. He looked at the writing at the bottom, the blue ink smudged and faded with time.

 _Samantha and Fox, 1972._

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2029, Dana Scully_

The other night, I heard my phone beeping, and I went to look at it. There was a text message.

 _I'm getting married._

I sat down slowly, reading the words over and over again. Mulder pulled my legs onto his lap.

"Who is that?"

I look at him. I don't want to tell him that it's William.

He's been different since Mary's baptism. Happier, calmer. He treats Emily as if she were his own. He sets Mary in his lap, and carries her around. I haven't seen him like this in a long time.

I think about when he pulled me to the side that day, while everyone else went to say hello to Emily and Mary.

"Congratulations. Grandma," he said.

I smirked up at him. "Congratulations yourself. Grandpa."

He winced. "Why can't we teach her to call me Mulder?"

I shrugged. "Or just Spooky."

He was smiling down at me, and I wasn't sure why. "What?"

"I know I don't say it enough. And I should."

"What? Grandma?"

He takes my hand and kisses it. "I love you."

I didn't know how to respond. I should have said it back, but it caught me off guard. I guess we don't say it enough. I always thought we didn't really need to. But I assume things when I shouldn't.

"And I think," he said, as he pulled me into his arms. "You're the most beautiful grandmother that has ever lived."

I don't know why he was like that. He'd just come from a Catholic ceremony for his "inbred, alien, monster" grandchild. As much as I understand him, I just as much don't. Whatever it was that had changed him, I didn't want to ruin it by telling him William is getting married. I look over at Emily. She's at the table, Mary on her lap, using my old laptop to study for her exams. Oddly, it's easier to get a license to practice medicine here than in Honduras.

I look down at my phone for a minute, then send him a message back.

 _Does Emily know?_

He responds almost immediately.

 _No. And you don't have to come. I just wanted you to know._

Mulder is still looking at me, the question all over his face.

"Monica," I tell him, shutting of my phone. "One of her kids."

He looks at me for a minute, then moves closer to me, looking up at Emily. "Who was it really?"

I sigh. Am I that transparent? "William," I whisper. "He's getting married."

He nods, but doesn't say anything. He doesn't seem mad. He doesn't seem like anything. Later, after we've gone to bed, he turns the lamp back on and looks at me.

"Scully, will you marry me?"

I look at him, puzzled. "We're already married."

"Yeah, but not legally. That's the only way I'm going to be able to leave her anything." He nods at the door. There's a light still on because Emily is still up. "And adopt her. I want her to be my daughter. Our daughter."

I'm still baffled. William getting married made him think of this? William obviously moving on with his life, moving past all the damage he's caused, made him want to marry me again?

"I don't know if we can do that," I said to him. "We might have to wait a long time."

Monica and Doggett waited something like four or five years for their license. I think. It was a long time. Then they had to travel to the Center to find Union-approved clergy and judges so their marriage would be recognized in all four regions.

"That's why we should start it now," he said. "I want her to have parents. And I want to make things official between us. Don't you?"

As far as I was concerned, the ceremony we'd had years ago was enough. We'd made our vows in a sacred place. A Holy place. Surrounded by friends, surrounded by love and trust. But love and marriage in this world is only valid if the government says so. And so is family.

"I'll submit the request tomorrow," I say.

He looks down at me, and kisses me. "Mrs. Mulder."

"Not Mr. Scully?"

He smiled. "I could work with that."

Then he turned off the lamp and turned away from me to go to sleep.

I lay there watching the back of his head. If he wants to leave her anything...because that time is going to come. One day, I'll be laying here just like this, and I'll look over at nothing. One day, I'll be laying here just like this, and I won't hear his breathing, slowing and rhythmic, as he falls asleep. I gently put my hand on his shoulder and turn him back to me.

"Hmm?" He said turning on his side to look at me.

I move closer to him and bring his face to mine, kissing him. He unfolds his arms, wrapping them around me, pulling me close. I reach down and take hold of him, swelling and hardening in my hand.

"We have to wait until our wedding night or else your Pa might shoot me," he says.

I see the light under the door and tell him we'll have to be quiet as he parts my legs. Of course, when we must be quiet it's not so easy. We haven't made love in a long time. Certainly not since Emily has been here. In fact, not since that strange, drug-induced marathon after the banquet. I don't want it be like that right now. After a while, he turns over on his back, pulling me on top of him. He tells me to slow down, slow down so he can look me. Is it in his mind, too? Is it in his thoughts that one day he won't be here with me? I pull him up so I can kiss him again and again. I rock against him, trying to slow this moment down, trying to keep it like this as long as possible. He has to bite down my shoulder to keep from groaning too loud.

We fall asleep with him on his back, my head resting on his chest. His hand is still in mine when we wake up.


	20. Chapter 21

Dr. Wells tagged each audio file that was approved for upload. Then he looked at the list that was in the corner of his browser. Anne Link's dot was still yellow. She'd been online recently, but she was idle now.

Dr. Wells enlarged a portion of video from the Parade. There was the American President. The Canadian Prime Minister. The Mexican President. Haitian President. The Administrations of Cuba, the Bahamas, Costa Rica, Dominican Republic, Jamaica and Puerto Rico walking slowly along the procession; their smiles strained and flat. Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago, and the Virgin Islands weren't there. They joined later.

He zoomed in to watch them. He didn't need to hear all the speeches. It went something like: your countries are no more, your administrations are no more, and you can all go fuck yourselves.

He made sure faces were blurred and all identifying information was taken out. He looked over at Samuel Spender, watching the process.

"I forgot about them," Sam said, laughing. "The Cubans were so pissed."

They both watched the video, which was taken by drones, at the onset of the transition.

"God," Sam said. "Castro is rolling in his grave."

Cuba hadn't wanted to join, but the alternative – surrounded by a very wealthy and powerful super-state—would have been worse.

Dr. Wells waited for the first four presidents to show up as they were officially and ceremonially handed over the Union. But then he remembered that they'd been kept in a secret location, guarded night and day. It was difficult back then to gauge national feeling, and there were assassination threats being snuffed out every week.

Dr. Wells submitted his approval after his review so it could be uploaded. He looked up at Sam.

"Why do we have to keep pushing them like this?" Dr. Wells asked. "Why is this so important to you?"

It looked like Sam hadn't heard him. Sam was cleaning his glasses with the end of his tie, making OCD circular motions. Dr. Wells hadn't noticed the pinched and jagged scars around his eyes before. His glasses had probably always covered them up.

He held them up, satisfied, and then put them back on his face. Dr. Wells started to ask again.

Sam sighed. "I'm trying to prevent a mass extinction."

Dr. Wells started to ask him what he was talking about.

"It's my lot," Sam added. "How did Europeans colonize this continent?"

Dr. Wells stared at him. Was this history class? Did he expect a serious answer?

"They did it slowly. It doesn't look that way to us, but it didn't happen overnight." He walked over and sat down across the room. "Time was the same back then as it is now. They did it gradually. Tiny steps towards the inevitable."

Dr. Wells just looked at him. God, he's weird.

Dr. Wells then noticed the dot beside Anne's name was green. He hadn't seen it change, and he could hear someone coming down the hall. She walked in and sat down, digging around in her bag. She looked…different. The Anne he was used to was scatterbrained, messy bun on top of her head, mismatched socks. She was dressed nicely and neatly, her hair brushed and pushed behind her ears.

She pulled out a memory card and handed it to him. "I don't have William's ready yet. I haven't had time."

She noticed Sam sitting there, and he stood up.

"Hi Anne," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm Sam. Sam Spender."

"Nice to meet you," she said, shaking his hand.

Sam went to stand by Dr. Wells, looking down at him, waiting.

"So," Dr. Wells began. "It seems like things are going well with her. You've been spending a lot of time over there."

Anne nodded. "I have."

Dr. Wells cleared his throat, glancing up at Sam. "Has she, um, mentioned any granddaughters or great-granddaughters?"

Anne looked at each of them. "Of course. Esther and Eve. And the twins. The girl's name is Tamryn."

"Not any others?" Sam chimed in. "Maybe after an interview or before, just in casual conversation?"

Anne shrugged, and shook her head. "No."

"Any pictures of children anywhere she hasn't told you about?"

"Nope."

Dr. Wells looked at her. He wasn't sure how to read her, looking at them calmly, looking almost bored with all this.

"Okay," Dr. Wells said, taking the memory disk and adding it to his pile. "I'll review it this afternoon."

"Okay," she stood up to leave. "It was nice to meet you," she said to Sam, then walked out.

They waited until the dot beside her name turned yellow again.

"Is she really the best one you've got?" Sam asked.

Dr. Wells thought about it for a minute. He hadn't spent enough time in their training talking about emotional involvement with the subjects. He should have covered that better. He was sure that was happening now. But he'd always thought Anne was too absent-minded to think too much about anything she was doing. She was good at following instructions.

"Well, she's been in the program the longest," Dr. Wells replied. "Had the most training."

"Maybe we could send someone else."

"No. She's been with Dana Scully too long. That kind of change at this juncture wouldn't be wise." Dr. Wells thought for a second. "Maybe we could send someone else to interview William."

"Maybe."

Sam stood there for a minute. "Well, I'd better get going. See you next week."

* * *

 **AL:** I'm sorry I had to leave. I hope you don't mind I let myself out.

 **DS:** No, it's fine. I'm sorry I kept you here so long.

 **AL:** And I'm sorry you had to relive that all over again. I know you miss him.

 **DS:** I do.

 **AL:** Did you at least get to see William and Emily more after that?

 **DS:** Not exactly. I wanted to see my grandchildren, though. I wanted to spend more time with them. I really didn't know them at all. They'd all grown up suddenly.

 **AL:** Did you get to see them, then?

 **DS:** Well…Mary was at the military academy, so I couldn't really see her but I wrote to her. They couldn't get email or anything like that during their first couple of years. What are you doing?

 **AL:** I was checking the battery.

 **DS:** Did you turn it off?

 **AL:** No. I just thought I saw a light blinking. I just wanted to make sure I had new batteries in it.

 _Sounds of AL checking recorder._

So…you wrote to Mary? Did you write to the triplets as well?

 **DS:** I had some video calls with them. Until their mother kind of intervened and…well, she and William had some problems. He, um, tried to move them all to the East. He said it was for better schools or something, but Madison took the triplets back up to the North eventually. Then…they just stayed separated after that.

 **AL:** Why?

 **DS:** I don't know. He told me it was something about his salary being better in the North. He said it was a fight about money. But…she knew about Emily and Mary. She knew about all that. I don't know who told her and when, but that was the real reason.

 **AL:** I guess you must have seen William more often when he moved here.

 **DS:** He wasn't here, here. He was close to the North/East border. And, no I didn't see him more.

 _Sounds of DS walking out of the room, then coming back in._

 **DS:** I'm making coffee if you want some.

 **AL:** Sure, thank you.

 **DS:** So, William moved here. Then after Mary graduated, Emily left the South and came here, too.

 **AL:** Okay…

 **DS:** You can see where this is going, right?

 **AL:** Oh…

 **DS:** Yeah.

 **AL:** You don't have to talk about it. We can talk about something else.

 **DS:** Actually, I want to talk about it. It might be cathartic in some way. Maybe if I put it into words, I'll be able to understand it better. Because there must be something that I'm missing. To be together again…after all of that? It didn't make any sense whatsoever.

 **AL:** Maybe they weren't really together at all.

 **DS:** No, they were. If Mulder had been alive…maybe it's good he died when he did. They both tried to so hard after Mulder died. To be with me, to help me, but what could be done about it? I think they just didn't want me to be alone. Emily said I could move to the South and live with her. After William moved his family here he said I could live with them. But he didn't mention it again after that, because I'm sure Madison was not at all in agreement. But I just wanted to stay here. There are bad memories here, but there are also good ones. There was love here. I don't want to be separated from that.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2061, Dana Scully_

I don't know why I wait so long after Anne leaves. It's not like she ever turns around and comes back. I watch her car turn left off the street. I watch it as it slowly winds it's way up the ridge, flashes of silver in the tree line, until it's gone.

I go over to my phone and call him. He answers on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"It's me," I say. "Are they around?"

"Hold on," he switches over to video, and David's face is there for a minute before he gets up to find them. I can hear talking in the background, then she sits down on the couch, waving at me.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi Melissa, where's your brother?"

"Outside," she says. "He's coming in."

I wait and see him sitting down next to her. They both keep their mahogany-colored hair long, so it makes them look more alike at their age.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi Albert," I say.

I stare at them for a minute. They seemed to be filled with more wisdom and maturity than typical eleven year olds. They've never been silly or fidgety. I've never even seen them argue. They are always serious and cerebral. At least when they are around me.

"She's not coming back until Monday. You can spend the weekend here if you want," I tell them.

They look at each other, then at me, nodding and smiling.

David sits down on the other side of Melissa. "You're sure she's not coming back until Monday?"

"I'm sure. She comes and leaves when I tell her to."

"Okay," he says. "I'll drive them down tonight."

"Good."

"See you soon!" They wave at me and the call is disconnected.

I sit there for a minute, then look over at where Anne was just sitting. She feels sorry for me. I can tell. But I feel sorry for her. She's annoying at times, but I like her. She's only doing what she's told, and when they've gotten what they want out of her, she'll be gone.

I think about it as I take a shower, while I make up the beds where they will sleep, as I take out a picture of Mulder no one has ever seen. It's from our FBI days. We were in his apartment. He's on his couch, the one he slept on all the time, turning to look over at me, a smile just beginning at the corners of his mouth. I can't remember what happened after that or why I decided to take a picture of him right then. Probably because I loved him and he loved me. I wanted to remember that moment for some reason. We were still testing it out back then, we were still sinking into it, slowly, like standing in quicksand.

I put my finger there, tracing the curve of his face. "Trust no one," I whisper to it.

I look at it for a moment, then put it back. I turn out the light, and go to sleep.


	21. Chapter 22

William made his way through the woods, following the rest, with only the weak light of dawn and kerosene lamps to light their way. Behind him, there were women singing a hymn that he'd never heard before. The cadence of their voices was choppy and repetitive, because it was meant to be sang in a round. But they didn't sing it that way. Their voices split into parts on the last verse. It made his skin prickle with goosebumps when he heard it.

He followed the elders into the woods as they approached the Susquehanna River. There was a mist over it this time of morning. Frogs and crickets serenaded them as they stood on the bank. William was the only one out of the men without a beard. They all looked alike, but different at the same time. Red beards, white beards, and brown. They wore their black hats for this, their Sunday hats. Some of them wore gold watches, too. This particular sect was more liberal than some of the other communities. And they were all becoming quite wealthy, selling their cannabis to the Union, who taxed it, then shipped it all over the world.

William noticed one other young man among them without a beard. He was dressed like everyone else, however. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made his eyes look larger than they really were. William had seen him before this morning, several times, always with an older blonde woman, pushing her in a wheelchair, helping her up to walk her around. He never saw her face. Her bonnet covered it up. And he always stared at William, watched him. He never spoke to him, just stared. Sometimes he would lean his face down and whisper something to her, but she never turned to look.

One of the elders, Michael, took off his shoes and rolled up his slacks. He stepped over stones into the water. All the other men did the same, and William did, too.

"Brother William," he said, reaching out his hand.

They called him brother. He wasn't really one of them, but they considered him their brother. It was touching. He thought it might make him cry.

He'd found them, ironically enough, on the Internet through people who helped teens escape them. He thought maybe if they helped others escape, they'd know away to help him join.

Option 2.

But after he'd been there for about a day or so, he was walking along with Paul, whose family he'd been staying with. They walked up the long dirt road to his farm, giant stalks of cannabis on their left, fields of cabbage, tomatoes, and cucumbers on their right. Vice and sustenance. Old establishment and new.

"What are you trying to escape?" Paul asked him.

William looked over at him.

"The English only seek us out when they are trying to escape something," Paul said. "Political outcasts from the Old Republic. People who feel alienated by their families. The abused and neglected. That's who comes to us now."

So, William decided to tell him everything. All of it. He left nothing out. They sat on his porch, in wooden rocking chairs Paul and his sons had made themselves, as William poured out his soul to this man. A man he'd only known for about forty-eight hours. He watched his face, waiting for the shock, waiting for him to stand and order William off his property and to never come back. But his face remained stern and thoughtful. His wife, Molly, came out to give them some lemonade.

They sat in silence for a long time. At one point, one of Paul's daughters came up on the porch.

"Daed, may I go to the Singing on Sunday?"

"Ja, but ask your mother, too."

She disappeared inside.

William waited. It was too sunny and too pretty of a day for what had just come out of his mouth. It seemed it should have gone up into the sky, turned into grey clouds, and unleashed a storm on them.

"Hmm," Paul said, after a time, sipping his lemonade.

"I'll understand. If you want me to leave," William said quickly.

"I was just thinking. You tried to take your own life, and you were saved."

"Yes. By my aunt. Or her spirit or something."

"That wasn't her. God saved you. He took a form that would be familiar to you, that wouldn't frighten you."

"But I didn't know it was her. Not right away."

"You knew enough to go look in your photo book, didn't you?"

William nodded, but he wasn't sure if he believed that. She'd seemed as real to him as Paul was right now.

"There was a man. An English man," Paul said. "Many decades ago, I can't remember the exact year. He went to Nickel Mines, the schoolhouse there? He came in with a gun, killed five of our girls, then himself. Later, at his funeral, the community, including the parents of those girls, went to his funeral, dressed in mourning. Can you imagine how hard it was for them to do that? To show forgiveness and mercy in the face of such senseless violence?"

"I think I remember that," William replied. "I was very little when that happened though."

"In that moment, they chose mercy. In that moment, they chose to forgive. My nature, my imperfect nature, would have gone after that man and killed him. But that is not the nature of God. Returning evil with evil. It doesn't work."

William wasn't sure why he was being told this. Paul must believe he's evil or something.

"These things you've done," Paul continued. "They were terrible things, terrible mistakes. But you were rescued from death. It means something."

William nodded. They sat in silence for a time.

"You can come to some of our services if you want," Paul told him. "No phones though or other technology in the service. But I don't think this is what you want. This isn't what you're looking for."

William went out into the water, it was cold, and the current tickled the tops of his feet. Emily wouldn't like this. No priest and the water wasn't blessed. They waded out until they were waist-deep. Dawn was breaking. Yellows and blues were coming in through the trees.

Paul waded in to stand on the other side of William. They prayed first, then sang a hymn. William had always thought these sorts of things were pointless. He knew it was symbolic, but how could dunking someone in water change anything?

When they were ready, they told William to lean back. Michael held one side of him and Paul the other. When they submerged him, William felt the current gliding over his body; cold river water soaking his shirt. When he came up, he could see the sun, a bright yellow circle behind the trees.

"You have been reborn," Michael said.

Later, he sat with a towel wrapped around him in Paul's home with his family. He tried to think about how he felt. Did he feel different? Did some sort of Divine magic happen to him? Maybe a little. Maybe a part of him had really been washed away in the river. But he didn't know for sure. He still felt mostly the same.

"You're not leaving so soon, are you?" Molly asked him, giving him some coffee.

"In a few days," William replied.

"If you are ever in this area again, you will always have a place to stay," Paul said.

"Thank you," William replied.

Paul leaned forward in his chair. "Remember that you cannot change people's hearts. Only God can do that. Your family may never trust you again, but God can change their hearts. If He wills it so."

 _If He wills it so._

Paul's words echoed in his head as he drove away. He'd heard Emily say something similar, in Spanish, as she prayed. If there was anyone in this world that he wished God would will, it was her. Will her to forgive him. To love him again. It didn't have to be _that_ kind of love. Although he wouldn't try to stop it. He felt ashamed, but it was true. How could he love anyone else but her?

 _If He wills it so._

As he left, he passed the outskirts of another farm. Walking up the road was that strange young man, watching him as he drove down the road. The blonde woman wasn't with him. William slowed, put his car in reverse, and stopped alongside him.

William rolled the window down. "Do I know you?"

He leaned down, peering at him through the window. "No."

"You're always staring at me as if you do."

He smiled. "You're mother went through so much to have you. And here you are. All grown up."

"You know her?"

"Yes. Your father, too."

"What's your name?"

He smiled again, then started walking away. "I have go to meet someone. Good luck to you, William."

William backed up again. "Can I have your name at least?"

The young man stopped, he leaned into the window, looking at William with his strange eyes. "Tell them that Gibson and Marita extend their best wishes."

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2030, Dana Scully_

Now it's empty here again.

Emily sat down next to me a few weeks ago. I knew what she was going to tell me. She didn't want to. I think she'd been putting it off, but I knew it was coming.

"You know you and Mary can stay here as long as you want," I said to her.

"I know," she replied. "But I've found a house. I have my license now."

Every time I look at her, my heart nearly explodes with pride. She's like me in so many ways. She's calmer now, more determined. I haven't told her about William. I haven't told her that his wife is expecting triplets. Maybe she already knows. Can she still read his mind? Can she still hear him? I don't want to be the one to tell her if she can't.

I tried to spend as much time as I could with them before they left. Mary hasn't done anything abnormal yet. She hasn't displayed any of her parents' abilities. But she's very smart. Only three and she can count to one thousand. Only three and she can read music notes. Only three and she can read through most of her books with barely any help at all. She mispronounces some of it, but she can do it. Sometimes I see her looking into a corner of the room intently, her eyes glowing blue. I follow her gaze and wonder if she's moving something or if she sees something I can't see.

Mulder lay in bed with me, a few days after they left. I think he misses them, too, but not as much as me.

"I talked to David again," he says.

I know what he's going to say. I just wait for it.

"He still hasn't heard from her. Gillian? He hasn't heard from her at all."

"Okay," I say, looking over at him.

"Don't you think that's weird? Years of nothing at all?"

"I don't think anything is weird anymore."

He pauses for a minute. "I think we should look for her. Help him out. He tried to contact her. Tell her that William found us, but he's never gotten a response."

This conversation annoys me, and I don't know why. They raised our son. Why wouldn't we want to help them in some way? At least find out where she's gone? At least help him. He came to Mary's baptism and helped us get Skinner into the country. But I don't want to chase things anymore. We can't do that anymore.

I sigh. "What can we do? What can we possibly do? We have no power, no freedom, and we're tracked. How can we do anything?"

He thinks about that for a minute. "How much travel time do we have left? For the year?"

I pull out my phone to look. "I have 36 hours. You have 18."

"Yeah, that's enough."

"Enough for what?"

"Go up there. Look around."

"Up where?"

"I think the last he knew she was up near Boston. If it's even still Boston anymore."

I turn over on my side and he's pressed up behind me in the way that he always does, pulling me into his arms, his breath on my neck. He knows I like this. He knows this is a habit of ours that I will never tire of.

"She probably got out before the transition," I say to him. "They were divorced so she probably went to Europe, and started a new life."

"Maybe. But I think it's worth finding out for sure."

I don't say anything. I just lay there with him, watching the numbers on the clock switch to midnight.

"Have you heard from the court?" He asks me, pulling me closer.

"It's still pending."

"What names did you put in?"

I don't say anything. I just smile.

"It was yours, wasn't it?" I can hear the smile in his voice.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see."

"Am I Mr. Scully?"

I turn to him and smile, shrugging. He could look it up for himself if he wanted. But I know he won't.

"Really?" He says, looking at me. "You're going to make me wait to find out what my name going to be?"

"I'm going to sleep," I tell him.

"You could have just hyphenated."

I turn out the light.

"But my name should be first."


	22. Chapter 23

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2041, Dana Scully_

I had to go get the mail.

I think we're the only ones in the entire Union that still use the postal service, and that's just because we have to. Network access is limited for Old Republicans. We really don't have a choice. It feels ancient to me; prehistoric in the times we live in.

I tell Monica that I'll be right back, and I start the walk to our "mailbox." It's down at the end of the road, under a NAU Postal Service sign that's faded and bent backwards. The metal container they dump it all in is rusted and dented. There was a lock on it, but someone must have forgotten the combination and busted it open with a rock. It hangs there, clicking against the metal in the wind as I walk up to it.

I think about how I hate this time of day. Late afternoon. The day is stale, the sun is further west, and it gets in my eyes as I walk. It's just me on the road. I try to listen and observe, to get a break from my thoughts. I need to get out of my own head. The pavement on this road hasn't been fixed in years. Decades probably. There are potholes everywhere; gravel and tree branches scattered about. They crunch and snap under my shoes. I can hear the trains in the distance, the whine of the engines as they zip through at 200 kilometers per hour. Kilometers. I still try to use miles, though. It slips into my vocabulary and measurements from time to time.

I think about having Monica here with me. I don't know how much longer she can stay. I think she knows, but she doesn't want to tell me. The more I'm around her, the more it seems she's frozen in time, too. I wonder if something was done to her as well. She's never told me anything like that. She knows all about my own experience, so I would think she'd share that with me. I think something happened to her and Doggett because they helped Mulder and me. Neither of them have ever told us that. It just seems like they may have been punished somehow for helping us escape. Maybe she just has good genes. Regardless, her loyalty, her friendship, is what has held me together these past weeks. She sleeps in my bed with me. I asked her to. If she thought that was peculiar, she didn't act like it. I'm not ready for it to be empty yet. I'm not ready to stretch out and not find a warm body there beside me. I don't think I'm handling this very well. I'm grasping at something I'm going to have to let go of.

I open up the container and dig through it carefully. Sometimes animals get in here and bugs. I found a black snake in here once. All coiled up, and just as surprised to see me as I was to see it.

Sometimes I find my closest neighbors' mail and take it to them. Up the mountain there's a man that was in the Mexican Congress; he was in the Chamber of Deputies. There are former Canadian Parliament members down the ridge on the other side, too. But I don't feel like looking for their mail today. I dig through boxes and envelopes that have been in there for months. But I see an envelope with my name on it. I pick it up and hold it to the sunlight.

It's from the East Region Domestic Court.

My hands shake as I open it. When I see it, I almost drop it. When I see it, I feel like I can't breathe. I am blindsided. The tears are coming out of my eyes so fast. I wasn't prepared for this.

It's our marriage license. Dated the day after he died.

Now I can cry. Now I can weep uncontrollably. It's all coming out of me now, in one giant wave of emotion, it spills out of me. I can't control it. I don't care who can hear me. This was on purpose. I know that it was. Can they see me right now? Can they see me breaking down? Do they enjoy it? They waited until he died.

They waited until he fucking died.

I run back to the house, I run inside, Monica asking me what's wrong. I open up my laptop to find the request. I want to cancel it; reverse it. It doesn't matter now.

"Dana, what's wrong?"

She's at my side, prying the pieces of paper from my hands.

"Dana!"

I look at her, I try to say the words, but I break down again. She pulls me into her arms, and I just cry. I don't know how long it was. But she holds me. She lets me cry until I can't. Until I don't have a tear left in me.

"They waited until he died," I say to her, handing her the pieces of paper. I'd ripped it up. I don't even remember doing it.

She takes them from me, looking at it carefully. There's sorrow in her eyes. She gets up and walks out of the room with it. When she comes back, I see she's taped it back together again.

"Keep it," she says to me, handing it back.

I look at it, my hands are still shaking, from rage, from the hopelessness, from the fact that he's not going to walk in here and call me his wife ever again. Because I am now. Officially and formally, I am his wife and he is my husband. This is what he wanted, and he didn't get to see it.

Why did they have to be so vicious? Our names written there in flowing, fancy print, mocking me, a punch in the face. We have done everything they asked us to do. We have cooperated. But I remember that one time when we didn't. I remember that time we tried to deceive them. That's what this is about. They might forgive, but they do not forget.

"This was on purpose," I tell Monica. "To wait until now. It was on purpose."

She nods. "Yeah, it was. But they let you and him have this, nonetheless."

"I don't want it now. It's meaningless without him."

"Why is it meaningless?"

"Because he's not here!" I don't mean to yell at her, but rage is replacing the sadness from before. "He's not here to see it. He's gone."

"I think that he is here. I think he's always here. Watching over you. I don't think even in death he could ever leave you."

I want to argue with her. I want to tell her Mulder's ghost is not floating around this house. This isn't a movie. And I don't want to hear any of her spiritual nonsense right now.

"He's gone," I yell at her. "He's not misguided spirit with unfinished business. He's gone. Dead. He can't see anything!"

I can tell by the look on her face that she knows she's said the wrong thing. She gets up and goes across the room, leaving me alone for the rest of the evening. I feel bad, but I don't apologize. I probably should have.

I couldn't sleep later. I looked beside me saw her there. Her dark hair, splayed out behind her as she lay on her side away from me. I think about when I first met her. I think about how I shouldn't have yelled at her. She doesn't have to be here with me. She can go back anytime she wants, but she chooses to stay here so I won't be alone.

I touch her shoulder and she turns over towards me.

"Were you sleeping?" I ask her.

"No."

I look at her for a minute, and I have a strange sense of Déjà vu. "Will you hold me?"

I turn on my side. She hesitates for a minute, then I feel her up against my back, putting one arm around me. It's not the same, but it's better than nothing. I'm not handling this very well.

After a while, I think she's fallen asleep, but she starts talking about Doggett.

"I hid pictures of him," she says.

I turn towards her slightly.

"I put them all in a box and stuck them in a closet." She pauses. "When someone is alive you can see the light in their eyes. When they die, it's like the light switch gets cut off."

I don't say anything, but I know what she means.

"Did I tell you about when he proposed to me?"

"No. I thought you just went to the court."

"No, he proposed. John wasn't very sentimental, but he planned this whole thing out. We went to the Grand Canyon. We rode down to the bottom on mules. It reminded me of the Brady Bunch. Do you remember that Brady Bunch house we were in?"

"Yeah," I said. I think about that bizarre place again. I'd forgotten about it.

"Anyway, we were with a tour group, but something was off. He kept going off and talking to the tour guide. I thought it was strange. We got down to the Colorado River, and it seemed like everyone was watching us the whole time. Then everybody stood around us in a circle. I didn't know what was going on. He got down on one knee. He pulled out an index card and a box. He was too nervous to memorize it, so he read from it. He said that his love for me could fill this canyon. He said it would fill it and it would still overflow."

"He said that?"

"I know. It's not really like him, is it? But he'd worked hard on it. He said more than that, but that's what I remember the most."

I can't picture that, but then again I can. He did love her. Their bond probably wasn't much different than the one Mulder and I had. But I'd never paid much attention. What else did I miss when I wasn't paying attention? She's lived with her loss far longer than I have. I've been focused on my own loss as if it matters more than anyone else's, but hers matters, too.

She's quiet for a while. I think remembering that upset her. She takes her arm from around me to wipe her face.

Mulder didn't do anything like that for me, but he married me, quietly, in the middle of the night. Maybe he planned it that way. I turn around to face her. We haven't had much in common, but we have this in common. In that way, we are very much alike.

I'm struck with something as I look at her. Something reckless. Something completely unlike me. I don't want to be like myself right now. I want to strip that part of me off, and try on another version. I want to step out of myself, and leave it suspended for a minute.

So I kiss her. She pulls back, shocked.

"Dana," she says, shaking her head.

Reckless. To hell with consequences. To hell with maintaining any sense of who I was before. The world has turned upside down, and I want to turn upside down with it.

I kiss her again, but she doesn't pull away this time. It won't be the same, but it will be something. We just kiss for a time. I don't know how to do anything else. It's not the same, but to be touched like that again, to be even moderately intimate with another person…it calms me. She's not him, and I don't know why I thought she'd be an adequate substitute. She doesn't engulf me, she's softer about it. She's restrained and uncertain.

Then she pulls away from me. "I'm sorry, Dana."

She gets up and goes into the other bedroom and closes the door.

I lay there for a minute. I climb back into myself, slowly, and regretfully. The absence wasn't long enough. I lay there on my back, still and quiet, until the sun rises.

I'm not handling this very well.

* * *

 _North American Union Records Administration_

 _East Region Domestic Court Archives_

 _Printed ink on paper, c. 2041_

 _Used with permission, DS Sanctuary Agreement, Clause 4_

CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE

Domestic Court of the East Region

This document does hereby validate and legalize the holy union between:

Dana Scully Mulder and Fox William Mulder

Who were joined in holy matrimony on August 4, 2001

Certified and on this day by Horatio Joaquin Avenham, Clerk of Marriages and Civil Unions, on this day of 15th in the month of March  in the year 2041.


	23. Chapter 24

William watched her as he leaned back on the bar.

He didn't want to sit on the stool. He wanted to be able to leave quickly if he needed to. He noticed the way the other analysts were looking at him when he walked in. Some of them told him hello and welcomed him back. He didn't see Julian, though. Or Julia. He didn't know what had happened there. He wasn't sure why he'd come to this anyway-a Council party. Why was he even invited? He was sure he'd lost his position, but apparently not.

He was watching the beautiful blonde woman on the other side of the room. She looked familiar, and he was trying to think of where he'd seen her before. She flashed a brilliant smile at everyone who spoke to her, warmth and interest filled the perfect symmetry of her face as she talked and shook hands with other analysts.

"Welcome back."

William turned to see Sam standing there beside him. There were angry red slashes around his eyes. It looked like they'd been stitched up at some point.

William tensed up, ready to leave, ready to run.

Sam held up his hands. "It's okay. No hard feelings, William. I know what you lost that night."

William relaxed a little. "I'm sorry, Sam." He thought he might start crying, and he shoved the urge down inside him. He'd been having those urges a lot lately.

"I am, too." Sam took a drag from his eMorley. "I should have drove you and her somewhere else. I shouldn't have been a part of that. I can't really blame you for being so angry, so upset. I would have done the same."

William didn't want to think about it. He didn't like where those thoughts took him: to a dark place, an empty place in his mind. Abandoned. A ghost town. But Sam looked genuinely sorry; guilty even. Maybe they'd held something over his head, too.

"I shouldn't have hurt you. Sometimes I can't control it." William thought he'd be coming back to a fight or an extremely private meeting in which he'd be terminated and they'd leak all his secrets all over the government. He'd been preparing himself for the worst, ready to accept the consequences. But Sam's willingness to forgive was throwing him off.

"Like I said, I really shouldn't have been a part of that," he took another drag, then ordered a scotch neat.

William looked back over at the blonde woman, she looked at him briefly, then continued her conversation.

"Have you heard from her?" Sam asked.

"No."

"And the baby? Did it live?"

William didn't answer. He was still staring at her. He didn't care if she saw him or not. She was probably used to men staring at her. It was hard not to look at her. She was like the sun and everyone else in the room was revolving around her.

"Miss North Region," Sam said, following William's gaze. "She was first runner up for Miss NAU."

William nodded, recognizing her finally. Miss North Region. Madison…something. He'd only remembered her first name because of Wisconsin. Everyone thought Miss North Region would finally win Miss NAU, but Miss West Region won instead. He remembered seeing her on the news sites, smiling politely and with dignity when she was announced the first runner up. Then the cameras panned to Miss West Region, fanning her face with her long pink nails.

But she wasn't dressed like a pageant queen that evening. No ball gown. No full, bouncing waves in her hair. She was sleek and professional in a tailored suit that fit the contours of her form perfectly. William guessed she must do yoga or something. She must take good care of herself.

"Why is she here?" William asked Sam.

"She works here. Or actually she's in the policy division. I guess she's done with pageants."

She looked over at William, a lingering glance this time, and a quiet smile.

"Her parents are Old Republicans," Sam said, sipping his drink. "Canadian Immigration."

"Are they tracked?"

"No, they work in the Center now."

"How do you know all this?"

Sam shrugged. "The Internet. Her biography is on the pageant site."

William watched her go up to the bar and ask for a glass of water. She sat back down with the group she was with. She laughed at a joke; her laughter was light, effervescent, like the clinking of glasses.

"Go talk to her," Sam said, a half smile on his face.

William shook his head.

Sam ordered a shot of whiskey and pushed it in front of him. "Drink that, then go talk to her."

William looked down at the shot glass, grateful it wasn't bourbon. He'd never be able to drink that again. "I don't know. Why don't you go talk to her?"

Sam smirked. "She's not my type."

"I don't really want to talk to anyone."

Sam nodded, understanding. "I don't want to upset you or anything, but…why? Why did you and she…why did you do that?"

William inhaled deeply and watched Madison twirl a strand of hair between her fingers as she listened to the woman next to her. He watched her carefully sip her water so it wouldn't mess up her lipstick. She looked back over at him again, smiling, clearly not offended at all by his staring.

"Because she has been with me whole life. My whole life I have waited for her."

Sam just looked at him. "I thought she was living in Honduras?"

William took a deep breath and gulped down the shot of whiskey. Then he walked over to Miss North Region, Madison Something, and hoped she would not see the dark clouds he felt hanging all over him, following him, keeping him in a shadow.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2041, Dana Scully_

I was trying to write Mary back, but my hand started to cramp. I don't hand-write things much anymore. Her letter is filled with exclamation points; pages of the dramatic writing of a teenage girl. She still hates it there, but I think she's accepted that she will stay there. I know that she needs to. I'm with her parents on this; she needs to learn how to kill. One day, someone or something will try to kill her for what she is. That's what they train them to do down there. Or I assume. It's not like they advertise it.

Monica told me they practice on convicts. After their executions are signed, they're shipped down to the islands to be slaughtered by cadets practicing for combat. But it's supposedly just the worst of the worst. Murderers, pedophiles, serial killers, violent criminals. That's how they are executed. I don't know how she knows this, but I can't ask Mary. I'm sure they read all her incoming and outgoing letters.

I saw the pictures of the academy online. At first, I didn't recognize what I was seeing, then it hit me: they train inside Disney World. But it's not Disney World anymore. No Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck. Gray machinery and barbed wire everywhere. Signs taken down and marked out with spray paint. It's insane what they've done to that place. Epcot is still there, but the top is open. They drop them down in there for something, but I'm sure that's top secret. I wonder if Disneyland is still around. I should ask Monica about that.

I thought she was going to leave, but she didn't. I apologized to her, but I didn't feel it. I don't feel sorry. I feel mostly numb. I was looking for something, to feel something, and I told her that. She told me that it won't help; it won't change anything. We can't do that. We are widows, and that's how it is.

I want to laugh about it. I want to laugh, hysterically, completely out-of-control. I have all of eternity, so why not? But I'm trying to hold myself together for Mary. And for Ephraim, Esther, and Eve. I have a video call with them later, but I think Madison might make some excuse. Sometimes she cuts it off early, saying they have to go to bed, but it's never that late. I still have a hard time telling the girls apart. They don't wear the same clothes, but they don't say which one they are either. I don't know what kinds of abilities they have, but they can hear each other's thoughts. They'll look at each other like they are having a conversation that I can't hear. Why are they all able to do this and I can't?

And the three of them are very accomplished. Very intelligent and talented. They've skipped a couple of grades. Eve likes to show me her pageant trophies. Ephraim moves the camera so I can see him playing the piano. Esther doesn't really seem to care about anything, even though she's going into the 9th grade at eleven years old. I can't help but feel proud of them, because maybe that's the part of me that was passed down. And Mulder, too. I wish that he'd known them. None of what's happened is their fault. We shouldn't have ignored them.

I hope I can keep this up. The four of them give me a purpose. Without them, I don't know what I would be doing now. The four of them grew up so fast. Why can't time slow down? But what does that matter for me anyway. It will continue for me. I'll still be here when the sun begins to die and pulls the planets in, burning all of us up, and everything here, all of us here, are nothing but a cavernous hole in the Universe. Forgotten and lost in time. Is it bad, is it crazy, that I wish that time would hurry up?

* * *

"Let's go!" William shouted into the house.

Everyone came out, dragging, except for the twins. They were still full of energy and curiosity. It was late and everyone was getting tired, but everything was lined up how it needed to be.

"Gen-ah-sis!" The twins screamed up at the sky.

"Stop!" Ephraim ordered.

Madison was still passed out in the lawn chair. William wondered if they should put her back inside, but it couldn't do any harm to leave her there.

"Should we move her?" Emily asked him, reading his thoughts.

"No. I think she'll be okay. She won't even know what happened."

Ephraim was chasing the twins down to get them to stand between him and Eve. Everyone was looking at each other, thinking about who they wanted to stand next to. Mary rolled her eyes because they so obviously did not want to be anywhere near her. She stood in between Esther and Emily. William took Emily's hand and Ephraim's. Ephraim, then Timothy, then Tamryn, then Eve joined hands with Esther. The circle was complete.

Sophia and Aiden were sitting in the grass by Madison, holding their Bibles, the pages flagged. They looked nervously up at the sky. The Bibles weren't really necessary, but William wanted this to become part of the tradition. The twins would remember this and pass this down. Eve would pass it down to her children, and so on and so forth. William looked at Eve's giant belly and felt concerned.

"Are you sure, Eve? Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"Yes, dad!" She was annoyed. She just wanted to eat everything then go to sleep.

"Maybe she should sit here with us," Aiden suggested. "It might be too much for her."

"I'm fine!"

William looked around at everyone, feeling a mix of pride, love, and disappointment. They should be a happier family. They shouldn't have so much dislike between them. The things that they have been through, the things they have said to each other. He could feel it passing through him as they held hands, waiting for him to begin. He wished they could take all the hatred, betrayal, and hurt and dump it out of them here in the middle of the circle and leave it there forever.

He knew they were as ready as they could be. They'd taken care of the things that they can control. But they were going to lose time. It would be anywhere from several hours to days. Something of this magnitude would erase a large chunk of time, time that they would never get back and never remember. And the weather. It would probably change. They might come out of it and find themselves standing in a foot of snow in the middle of August. All of that was possible, so that meant it would probably happen.

"Okay," William began. "Let's think about why we are here. It's for her. We are doing this for her. And him, too. Think about that, concentrate on that. We would not be here if it wasn't for them. We need them, and they need us now."

He looked at each of them, thinking they were going to roll their eyes at him with impatience, but they all seemed prepared, accepting. Only the twins seemed confused, but they'd understand.

"Alright," William looked up at the sky as everyone else looked up with him. "Sophia. Aiden. Read."


	24. Chapter 25

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2061, Dana Scully_

I always get really anxious when I know they are on their way. I know that nothing is going to happen. David is a citizen, and there's no reason for him to be stopped. But I look out the window, pace around, and look out again as I wait. We've been doing this for years, and not once has he been stopped or followed. I know this, but I worry anyway. I feel like if I don't worry, then that will be when something will happen. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to repay him for the tremendous risks he takes. He doesn't get anything out of this, but he does it anyway.

I'm relieved when I see his car winding around the ridge, then coming down the road. I always tell him to take the backways in, and if there's a car behind him at all, to continue down the road until the car is gone. He once drove them close to twenty miles away waiting for a car behind them to turn off somewhere. But there's no one following him, and as soon as he's pulled into the driveway, Melissa hops out with her snake and Albert with his fox.

Albert knows Mulder's first name was Fox, but he said he didn't choose his pet fox. He says the fox chose him. And Melissa's snake is harmless. Just a little garden snake she found. I used to not let them bring animals in here, but they can tell the animals what to do and the animals listen.

I think about when they were around seven or eight, and I looked outside and saw them surrounded by wasps. I thought they were being attacked. When I went out there, they started walking around the yard and the wasps lined up in a straight line and began to follow them. They didn't try to sting them at all. Then the swarm split off into two lines, one following her to one side, and the other following him to the other. Then they just stood there as the wasps swarmed into a triangle shape, then a square, then a circle. I had never seen them do that, but they told me they just told the wasps what to do, and they listened. The two of them are truly incredible and powerful. It makes them both very valuable and very dangerous.

They hug me before they run outside to the yard. Eleven years old and they are as tall as me. I think Albert is taller. They are both just like their parents in that way. David follows them in with their bags, and he puts them in the extra room. I always think he looks good for his age. Not like me, though. He says it's because he's been a vegan for half his life.

"You sure she's not coming back until Monday?" He asks me. He worries Anne will just show up unannounced, but she's never done that.

"I'm sure," I reply.

We stand at the back door to watch them for a few minutes. They like being outside. I let them sleep out there sometimes in sleeping bags when the weather is nice. And there are trees all around the yard to prevent anyone from seeing them. They can do things to trees, too. One February, Melissa went outside wrapped up in her coat while Albert took a nap. She stood there staring at one of the trees for a long time, and when I looked back out the window again, there were bright green leaves all over it like it was summertime. Albert ran his fingers over a dead shrub in the front yard, and it began growing leaves and flowering the next day. They don't seem to think it's that unusual, and they often ask me why I can't do those things. Or why David can't do them. I try to avoid using words like "normal" or "average" when I explain it to them. I don't want them to think there is something wrong with them.

"Is she coming?" David asks me.

"Yeah, she said she'll be here in the morning."

"That's awful quick. She must be leaving at like 3 or 4 then."

I shrug. "She'd be here right this second if she could."

"Is he coming, too?"

"I sent him a message, but I haven't heard back from him yet. I'm sure he will."

Ironically enough, this is the only place they can all be safely together, besides David's. But it's easier for everyone to come here, and recently, I guess because I'm cooperating with the interviews, NAU intelligence hasn't shown up to search my home. I have a plan set in place just in case they ever do. I've shown Melissa and Albert where to hide if that ever happens. We've practiced it the way you would practice for a fire drill in school.

"Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?" David asks me as we go sit in the living room.

"No, I'm okay." I pause. "I saw her try to turn the recorder off."

"So, someone's told her," he says after a minute.

"No, I don't think it's that. I think that she thinks she's helping me."

He nods. "You don't think she's taken anything out, do you?"

"From what I've heard so far in the repository, she's just taking out what she has to and that's it."

She really does think she's helping me. She doesn't have bad intentions, but it's important that she records everything I say so it can be uploaded. There are people listening, and I need them to hear my message so they know what to do. If she's trying to turn off the recorder or edit anything, then the message won't get out. I don't need sympathy or a friend; I need her to do her job. This is the only way I can do this, and it has to be done right.

And it still amazes me how greatly I am underestimated. I guess they think I've given up. Everyone I know and trusted is no longer with me, and I suppose they assume I've been beaten; that I'd be easy to probe and dissect for information. What do I have to fight for anymore? I have plenty to fight for still. But maybe part of this is my own fault. I have played the pitiful, lonely, Old Republican widow so well that I guess it was only a matter of time before she began to feel sorry for me. Sometimes reliving my memories is hard. Sometimes I really do feel pitiful and lonely, but she can't be doing this. These people have to hear it. All of it.

"I wonder if it's that professor she's working with," David speculates.

I shake my head. "I don't think he really understands what this is about, either."

"But someone does. And they're overseeing all this, aren't they?"

"Yes. They just want the truth. And they're going to get it."

"But you're not divulging the whole truth. You'd think everything you've said so far would be enough, though."

"You'd think."

David gets quiet for a minute, like he's trying to work up the nerve to tell me something.

"I, um, I heard that they've started interviewing William."

"Why? He's not Old Republic."

"It's for the anniversary. Forty years. Can you believe that? He's retired now, and I guess whoever is behind this is thinking William might say something that you won't."

I'm not overly concerned at the moment that they are interviewing him, but I am a little confused by it. He's not a part of this. At least not yet.

"How did you know about it? Did he tell you?" I ask him.

"No. It's in the repository. I guess you don't have access to that side."

I've never even thought to check, but I probably don't. All these things happen around this country and around the world that I never hear about or know about. It's a blessing and a curse.

"What are they asking him?"

"About his time in the Council mostly. I get the sense he doesn't want to talk about anything else."

I wish right then that I could hear it. I want to find out if they're redacting the same things from our interviews. They're probably giving him more privacy than they are me.

"Who's the interviewer?"

"Anne."

"I wonder if she's trying to turn off the recorder with him, too."

"I don't know. But she hasn't gotten very far. There's not much up there yet. Maybe he's giving her the run around so she can't schedule anything with him. He's gotten kind of cross with her a couple of times."

"I have, too."

"Yeah, but she seems more pushy with him."

I'm not surprised that she's simultaneously interviewing me and my son and hasn't told me. He would have to know what's going on with me, however. It's all over the Archive site right now. I wonder how much he's heard and what he thinks about what I've said. I've revealed a lot about him, and I'm sure they've muted out some of it because he's still living and he's Union. They unmute that stuff when people die unless they've signed a specific wavier that prevents them from doing it. I doubt he'll ever sign any such thing, just like I doubt he'll ever die.

"I'm going to have to make her sit somewhere else on Monday. After she lays the recorder out so she can't reach it without me seeing it."

"What time on Monday?"

"I don't know. I can't remember what we said."

"I should come back Sunday night, then?"

I sigh and tell him yes. It's really not enough time for all of them to spend together. They get little snippets here and there, and I keep telling them and myself that this is temporary. One day, they won't have to do this anymore, but they have to right now and it's hard on all of them.

David hugs me before he leaves. I wouldn't have been able to do this without him. He's a good man, a good friend. He raised my son. I owe him so much. I don't know what I'll do when he passes away.

I sit around with Melissa and Albert late into the evening, talking with them. I ask them about their life, about school. They're homeschooled because they are undocumented. They have no Union ID number. There are no medical records on them either. There doesn't really need to be. They've never been sick. Not a cold, an allergy, or the chicken pox. They've never needed a vaccine or a pain killer. If they ever get a scratch or a scraped knee, it's completely healed within minutes. I have never had to use any of my medical training with them.

David used to be a teacher before he joined the Department of Defense, so he's taught them quite a few things. When they're with me, I try to do the same. They learn fast. They can read an entire textbook and have most of it memorized.

When they go to bed, they're excited to see their mother tomorrow. And their father, too, whenever he replies to my message. He's not their biological father, but they love him just the same and he feels the same way about them. I guess, in the end, it all worked out okay as far as their little family is concerned. I wish I'd gotten to know their biological father, though. I never really got to talk to him.

I'm trying to figure out where to take them tomorrow so their parents can have some time alone. I try to give them that, because they have a hard time seeing each other. They love and respect each other very much. It's easy to see, and I can recognize those things now. I'm glad they're happy, but sometimes when I see them together, I just think about Mulder and I have to walk away. I wonder if we were like that; if other people could see it even when it wasn't obvious.

I don't know when all of this will end, but it has to at some point. I don't know when or how, but it has to. I think that's what keeps us all going; hope for an ending. I never thought I'd be on this side of it. Mulder and I spent years trying to uncover and prevent this, but I'm a participant now. I wonder what he would think of that. I wonder if he would question what we are doing, or if he would go along with this just as willingly as I am. He wouldn't like Anne, and he'd probably be a little irritated about the very private things I've told her about me and him. Or maybe he'd be happy that I've remembered all those details. I'm never going to forget any of them. They will be with me for as long as I live, which will be forever.


	25. Chapter 26

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2005, Dana Scully_

It's not like me to get this melancholy and stay this way.

Maybe it's the weather, several days of cloudy skies and rain. Or the changing of the seasons, daylight ending sooner. I don't know. But I always try to find an outside reason first. There are many reasons to feel this way now.

It's not really a secret, but I don't think Mulder knows about the drawer that I have in our bedroom. I don't keep it locked, and he could just as easily open it up and look through it. I don't think he ever has, though. I keep a couple of pictures of William in it and the only one I have of Emily. It isn't much. The pictures are wrapped up in a blanket my mother made for William. It still smells like baby powder. After all this time.

I take them out and lay them on the floor in front of me. Just to see. Just to remember. I'm afraid I'm going to forget about them. Why would I do that? Why would I forget? I feel like the only thing that gives Emily any justice is if I take the time to remember her. If I forget about her, then her short life has no meaning.

William is four years old now. I don't know where he is exactly, and sometimes I wonder if I'm going to get a call from his adopted parents, cursing me for giving them a child like him. As if they'd be able to find me. They've had to have seen it by now; his abilities must have manifested themselves by now. Did they try to return him to the agency? Like a defective piece of furniture? We don't want this; it doesn't work right.

And Emily. She'd be…about eleven years old now. What grade is that? Fifth or sixth? I wonder what she'd look like. I wonder if she'd still be so quiet and serious or a bubbly preteen going to sleepovers and summer camp. What would she be like? What would her voice sound like? This is a dangerous game I play, guessing at what each of my children would say and what they would do if they were here with me right now.

I hear Mulder come into the room, but I don't bother putting the pictures away. He can see them from where he's standing. He sits down next to me and doesn't say anything for a long time, just looking. Is he doing the same thing? Trying to figure out what they'd be like now? This alternative present that should have been, but could never be.

"I'm changing my Will," he announces. It startles me a little bit.

"I want you to look it over," he adds, taking one of my hands in his.

I nod, but I don't look at him.

"I want to be cremated and my ashes spread at my family's home."

"Okay."

Does he really have to bring this up right now? I don't want to think about that right now.

He turns his head, leaning in so I'll look at him. "You're okay with that?"

I shrug. "It's your choice."

He picks up a baby picture of William and looks at it for a minute or two, turning it over to see if there's a date on it.

"He's four now, isn't he?" He asks me.

"Yeah."

He puts it back down with the rest, and I think he's going to get up. Instead, he pulls me over to him so my head is on his shoulder.

"Whatever the world is like when I die," he says quietly. "I don't know if I would want to be brought back into it. I don't see anything getting better, do you?"

I know what he's thinking. The world will be taken over by aliens and we will all be enslaved by them or something. Once upon a time, he probably would have wanted to be around for it. Maybe just to gloat that he was right the whole time. Is that what is waiting for us in the future? What does it matter? There's nothing we can do to stop it now.

He's never asked me about my Will or what I would want. We both know that it's irrelevant, even though neither of us have actually said it.

I still hope, even though I know it's a stupid thing to hope for, that he won't die. And if he does, it will be millions of years from now. It seems like a long time from now and it has to be. It just has to be. Maybe he wouldn't have changed it if William was with us now. Maybe he would want to come back if that ever became possible.

"I think," he says, looking down that the photographs. "I think they are both happy. Wherever they are right now. I think they're happy."

I don't answer. We look at the pictures for a while. Then I put them back into the drawer and shut it.

Until next time.

There will be a next time.

* * *

Timothy opened up one eye, and peeked at everyone around the circle.

Was something supposed to be happening?

Everyone had their heads down and eyes closed now as if they were praying. Nothing was happening. Timothy was getting fidgety and impatient. He could hear his mother and uncle reading Bible verses. Their voices droned on and on with "thee" and "thou" punctuating each sentence. Their voices and hands were shaking as they leafed through the pages.

What were they so afraid of?

Was something supposed to be happening?

He wanted to break away from the circle and go do something else, but his father had one of his hands clenched in his and his sister, Tamryn, was holding the other. Everyone was very still, not moving at all, like statues. Would they even notice if he left?

Before he could give that anymore thought, his right hand started to tingle, then his left.

Then both of them started to burn like he was holding his palms over a candle flame.

It hurt.

Suddenly, it looked like there was sunlight all over them, shining down on them as if God had suddenly yanked it back up into the sky on a yo-yo string. Then it was gone.

It did it again.

There was the sun, a quick ball of light just cruising through the sky over and over, darkness following it, and clouds intermingling so fast it was hard to see them at all. He felt damp for second. Did it rain?

Time was passing around them, but they stayed still. Days were passing around them, but they remained suspended.

Okay, now something was happening.

The pain in his hands got worse and he wanted to pull them away, but he couldn't move. He was paralyzed. All of them were. No one was moving. Were they dying? Was he dying?

There was an image in his head now; it was being passed around the circle.

The image of a man.

At first the man wasn't moving, like them. He was just as still as they were. But then Timothy saw his eyes blink and his fists clench. He was moving now. He could see everyone else starting to move, too. Their eyes blinking, hands clenching each other. His father was squeezing his hand so tight he thought he might break it.

Something is happening now.

And there was no sound. There was nothing. He couldn't hear the Bible verses anymore. No sounds of the crickets and cicadas. Was he deaf now?

His hands hurt. They burned so much. He couldn't turn his head anymore. He was frozen completely still. He couldn't scream or cry. But he was alive, right? He could still see the sky changing rapidly. Faster and faster. It was making him feel sick. Was time moving forwards or backwards? But he could still see, so he must be still alive.

It felt like something was being pulled out of him. He had no control over it. It felt like a part of himself was leaving, twisting, flexing, and pulling away as if it were sticky gum on the bottom of his shoe.

He didn't like this. Whatever was happening, he wished it would stop. He wished with all his might. Squeezing his eyes closed, he begged God to make it stop.

Just then, he heard his grandmother scream. At first, it sounded like it was coming through a tunnel, muffled at one end. Then it got louder.

Just like that, the burning in his hands was gone and night was back. All the adults took a huge, gasping breath like they'd been holding it this whole time, collapsing to their hands and knees, falling down all around him.

His mother and uncle came running over, helping everyone up.

"Are you okay? Can you breathe?"

"I'm okay," Timothy's grandfather waved them away. "I'm fine, just give me a minute."

"It was too long this time, William!" His uncle shouted, kneeling next to his Aunt Eve. "You could've killed her!"

"Oh, stop! I'm fine!" She said, slapping his hands away from her.

"Are you okay?" His mother came over to him and his sister.

"My hands hurt," Tamryn whined.

"Mine, too," Timothy added. He looked at the palms of his hands; they were red like a bad sunburn.

Timothy watched his aunts laying on their backs in the grass, trying to catch their breaths. They were looking up into the sky at something and Timothy followed their gaze. He saw a cluster of lights, glowing and blinking, moving rapidly up into the atmosphere away from them. He didn't know what it was.

He looked around at everyone, confused, when he saw the soldier-looking lady that no one liked staring right at him. She was the only one still standing. It was only for a second or two before her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted.

"Mary!" His Aunt Esther went over to her, but everyone else was turning their attention to what his grandmother was screaming at.

She'd fallen out of the lawn chair, dragging herself away from something in the bushes. Timothy couldn't see what it was at first. Everyone was blocking him.

"Oh, God!" His grandmother screamed. "You're all evil! Evil!"

Timothy's father tried to push him away, but he went over to it anyway, then wished he hadn't.

It was the man he saw in his mind. A naked man. All curled up and shaking in the bushes, looking at them with terror in his eyes. Who was he?

The man tried to talk. Tried to remember how to move his lips and jaw. It had been a long time. Sounds sputtered and stuttered out of his mouth for a few seconds.

"What's happening?" The man said finally, breathing hard, as everyone stared at him. But the words were all blended together and his voice wasn't very loud. It was hard to understand him. Timothy saw the tattoo on his arm. It was just the same as his dad's and grandfather's. Was he one of them, too?

"What's happening?" The man asked again, a little more clearly, but he started to cough violently, a liquid coming out of his mouth. Oh, God. Was it blood? Please don't let that be blood.

His father grabbed his arm then his sister's arm. "Sophia! Take them back in the house right now!"

"Who is that?" Tamryn cried, as their mother dragged them away.

"Who is he, dad?" Timothy called back.

What had they just done?

The last thing Timothy saw before his mother pushed him and his sister into the house was his Aunt Emily kneel down next to the man, covering him with a blanket as he continued to ask what was happening.

She put her hands gently around his face, looking in his eyes. "You're awake."

* * *

Emily opened the cabinets, searching for a glass, but they'd all been wrapped up. They were most likely shattered to pieces by now anyway. She found a plastic kid's cup shoved in the corner of one of the cabinets and filled it with water.

"I'll give it to him," Eve said, waddling over, her hands over her belly. She'd regained most of her strength rather quickly.

Emily and William watched her walk into the living room where Fox Mulder was sitting on the couch. Or rather curled up into a ball under the blanket wrapped around him, still trembling and eyeing them all suspiciously. He'd coughed up what was left of the Resin in his lungs and stomach outside before they carried him in.

He had no idea who they were. He didn't remember them at all.

Emily had given Madison a shot with a sedative so she'd stop screaming about how evil they all were. William put her to bed and locked the door. Ephraim had ordered the twins upstairs to bed and Sophia was up there with them right now. It was very unlikely they were actually asleep. Sophia and Ephraim were in for a long night with those kids after what they'd seen.

"How much time did we lose?" Emily asked William cautiously.

"A week. Maybe a little more."

"Oh, God."

"But he's here. That's the important thing. And he still remembers some things, right? He remembers language, at least."

"But not us."

"Not yet."

They watched Eve approach him, handing him the cup of water. He shrank away from her fearfully.

"It's alright," Eve said gently. "You've been through a lot. You must be thirsty." She handed him the cup of water, nodding for him to take it.

He brought one of his hands out from under the blanket, then paused, looking at it as if he'd never seen it before. He moved his fingers around, looking puzzled by it.

"Just put your hand around it like this," Eve said, demonstrating for him.

He imitated her grasp around the cup, taking it from her, still looking terrified.

"Do you remember me?" Eve asked him hopefully. "I'm your granddaughter, Eve."

He shook his head, then looked inside the cup at the water. When he put it up to his lips to drink it, he immediately started coughing it up.

"Okay, okay, it's okay," Eve said, sitting down next to him. "Just go slow. Drink it slow."

William walked over and knelt down beside him. "Here." He put the cup up to his mouth, pretending to drink. "Just drink it slow. Let it go down your throat and don't try to breathe while you do it."

Mulder tried again, gulping down the contents of the cup quickly once he remembered how to do it.

"Good. That's good." William said. He hesitated for a few seconds. "Do you remember me at all? I'm your son. I'm William."

"Son," Mulder repeated, shaking his head.

William looked back at Emily, and she slowly shook her head at him, looking away.

He didn't remember them at all.

But some memory loss had to be expected, right? It had been twenty years after all.

"Maybe we really are evil," Ephraim mused from his chair in the corner.

"Don't say that!" William snapped at him.

Esther came down the stairs just then and into the kitchen.

"Mary's fine, just in case anyone cares," she announced haughtily, looking through the cabinets.

"Is she really okay?" Ephraim asked.

"Oh, what do _you_ care?" Esther retorted, finding a plastic mug, rinsing it out in the sink.

"I'm genuinely concerned. Is she okay?"

"She's resting," Esther answered, looking warily into the living room.

They could tell Mulder really didn't like them all staring at him. He was absolutely petrified, rocking back and forth and shivering. But it was hard not to stare at him. He was alive.

Moving and breathing alive.

Seeing and hearing alive.

Twenty years dead, and he was alive.

They'd done it. They had really done it this time. It had worked.

And he looked just fine. Healthy, even. Not a blemish or flaw on him at all. The Resin really worked. But William couldn't be sure if the glow to his skin was because of the Resin or because of them.

"We're going to Hell for this," Esther said matter-of-factly, filling the plastic mug with water from the fridge.

William went back into the kitchen. "Stop! You want him to hear you say that?"

"It's not like he can understand me! He doesn't know who we are or where he is! We should _not_ have done this! He was at peace!"

"You didn't have to be here!" William said, trying not to shout. "If you felt so strongly, why are you here? Why did you even help?"

Esther didn't have an answer for that. She excused herself and went back upstairs.

"I should go up there," Emily said quietly after a minute. "See how Mary is doing."

"Yeah," William agreed. "I should, too. We owe her a lot for this."

"I don't see what the big deal is," Eve pouted from the living room, she was sitting back against the couch cushions, far too pregnant to get up. " _I'm_ the one that was really at risk. Who cares if Mary's tired? We're _all_ tired."

"Will you shut up!" Ephraim barked from his corner.

"Don't you dare tell me to shut up!" Eve countered.

"Enough!" William stood in between them. "We don't need to be doing this in front him."

"Why not?" Eve said, rolling her eyes. "Might help him remember us."

William carefully sat down next to his terrified father, who had pulled the blanket up over his head like he was trying to hide from them.

"Give him some time," William sighed. "He'll remember." Then he looked over at Emily. "Maybe we should bring her here."

"No," Emily said, shaking her head. "Absolutely not."

"I agree," Ephraim said. "He doesn't even remember his own son or grandchildren. He might not remember her, either."

"Maybe if he sees her, it will help," William said thoughtfully. "It might all come back to him."

"No, William," Emily insisted. "Not yet. Let's give him some more time. She might have a heart attack if he saw him like this."

William nodded reluctantly. They really shouldn't rush it or try to push him too hard. But how long would it take? Right now, there were hundreds, if not thousands, of people in this world wishing they could bring their fathers back. William had his own father back now, but he wasn't feeling like how he thought he would feel.

"Come on," Emily nodded towards the stairs. "Let's go see Mary and get him some clothes."

William followed Emily up the stairs, then he paused midway.

"What?" Emily asked, turning around.

"Did we do the right thing?" He whispered to her, careful to make sure no one else heard them. He was starting to feel panicked. "What if he can't remember us? What if he can't remember anything? Did we do the right thing?"

He sank down on one of the steps, suddenly far to weary walk up them anymore.

Emily slowly sat down next to him and sighed. "I don't know. I hope so."

* * *

Anne read over Fox Mulder's Will again.

Then again.

Then again.

Ever since Dana Scully had given her permission for it to be properly redacted then uploaded, something about it had bothered Anne. She thought, at first, it was because Mary wasn't mentioned in his Will at all. When Anne had taken the wavier and file from Dana Scully, then back to the lab to make the redactions, she'd done it rather hastily. Dr. Wells had been tapping his foot loudly at her for a week at that point.

But even in her haste, Anne noticed Mary was missing. It had made sense to her at the time, considering who her parents were. But if Mary was such a big secret, why mention her at all? Why would Dana show her pictures or the entry in the Bible? And with all of it on the record, too? And Mary and her parents were still living. Most of their information was redacted anyway, with the one exception of Emily's when she was still an immigrant.

Did Fox Mulder hate his granddaughter so much he'd leave her completely out of his Will? It was almost like she didn't exist at all. Anne never got the impression he would be that cruel. However Mary came into this world, it was not her fault. Anne didn't know her at all, or any of these people, but she couldn't help but feel attached to them in some way. Anne felt sorry for her. Why was she left out?

Aside from that, there was something else about his Will that wasn't quite right. There was a signature page at the end, signed by Fox Mulder, then by Dana Scully as his witness, then by the Regional Secretary. Old Republicans couldn't just use a plain old lawyer. They needed Regional Secretary Seals to validate Wills, property deeds, estate foreclosures, and for approval for having more than two children. It was probably not nearly as strict now since there were less of them, but not back then.

Anne had ordered the original copy from the court archives. She swore like she'd never sworn before when the court sent her the Will printed on a transparency. Really?! Who uses this shit now? Regardless, she'd tried to view it on an old transparency machine, or whatever the hell it was, in the lab. But the stupid thing had no buttons to zoom in or magnify anything and it was loud and stupid and had to be plugged into the fucking wall. Who uses this shit now?

So she called the courthouse and demanded the original _paper_ copy. And what did they send her?

A CD.

A motherfucking CD!

The badly scanned TIFF images on the CD were crooked and out of order. When she called to complain, they explained all documents created before 2050 had been scanned and the originals destroyed. Apparently, it was National policy now. Record retention and disposal was carried out by National guidelines rather than Regional.

Furious, she went back to the archives lab, since only the desktops in the lab had CD drives, so here she was right now, at nearly two in the morning trying to dissect these badly scanned images to figure out what she was missing.

Because something was wrong with this.

She thought maybe Mary was initially in the Will, then taken out later. But if this was a scan of the original, there was no indication anything had been deleted. More problematic than that, however, was the signature page.

The first version originated in the 1990s, notarized by an Old Republican lawyer. The second version originated just after the Millennium, then the third and final version, the one published for all to see, that was now NAU property, was the problem version.

Fox Mulder signed it in 2039, then provided his handprint. Dana Scully signed it the following year, then stamped it with her handprint. That was okay. There was nothing wrong with those. Anne had seen many examples of both their signatures to recognize them. It was the Regional Secretary's signature and seal that was the problem.

Their seals were infrared, digital stamps. That way, the dates couldn't be tampered with and they would show up in photography and scans. They'd used a special type of paper back then for this very reason. No possibility for forgery.

Anne didn't think the signature was forged. It was genuine. But it wasn't from the East Regional Secretary at that time. _Gibson Praise_ was scrawled at the bottom of the page, then beside that was his name printed on the seal. He had been the South Regional Secretary. She had his term pulled up in her browser. He'd never lived or served in the East. Not even temporarily, even after the East Region President was impeached during his term and the one immediately after disappeared. Gibson Praise resigned a few years ago, and now that he was a private citizen again, the information on him came to a dead stop.

He'd stamped the document in 2050.

At least, that's what it looked like. The numbers were squished together where the scanner had warped the image a little. But it was definitely 2050-something. That was a five, not a four.

Anne frowned, trying to conjure up some kind of explanation for that. Why the South? Dana Scully and Fox Mulder had all those travel restrictions, didn't they? She supposed the laws didn't say exactly who the Regional Secretary had to be, as long as it was one of them. But ten years later? Nearly a decade or more after Fox Mulder died? That didn't make any sense.

She looked through other Wills and documents from Old Republicans that needed a Regional Secretary Seal. Not one of them was validated outside of their Region, most of them in the East, and certainly not a decade later. The longest time period she saw was about four years. Old Republicans were never a priority in any case.

Anne started to feel nervous and a little irritated. Was she being tricked? Did Dana Scully pass this on to her, thinking she wouldn't notice this? Or Dr. Wells? Anne thought of that weird man she'd met, Sam-something. She really hadn't been paying that much attention to him, and she'd outright lied to him. Is this why he was asking her all those stupid questions?

What in the fuck was going on?

Anne could not help Dana Scully if she was going to be tricked and lied to. Had she done this on purpose? Dana was a smart woman. There was no way she could feign ignorance and say she hadn't noticed these things before. This was purposeful. She had to have known.

Anne was going to have to ask her about this. Tomorrow. Off the record. She would pretend to turn the recorder on maybe, then ask her. She'd be honest with her, right? Anne couldn't see why Dana would lie to her and try to hide things from her. Anne started to wonder if she'd done something or said something that would make Dana not trust her, but they'd talked about so much already. Very painful, personal things, too. Why would Dana Scully try to pass off something like this and not explain it?

After a minute or so of thought, Anne took out the motherfucking CD and put it in her bag. She logged off the desktop, then quietly exited the archival lab.

She would settle all this tomorrow. Maybe there was an explanation for it. Something she hadn't thought of yet. After all, Dana Scully was alone in this world now, estranged from her family, and a very lonely widow. She had nothing to lose, nothing hide anymore.

Right?


	26. Chapter 27

**AL:** Dana, do I have your –

 **DS:** Just stop asking.

 **AL:** I'm sorry. It's habit.

 **DS:** And put the recorder over there.

 **AL:** Where?

 **DS:** There's a generator by that window. It's loud when it cuts on. No, not that table. The other one.

 **AL:** Over here?

 _Sounds of AL walking around the room._

 **DS:** Yeah. There's no solar down here. I have to turn the generator on when the power goes out. They usually don't restore it for a few days.

 **AL:** Why did the power go out?

 **DS:** There was a storm the other night. Where did we leave off last time?

 _Sounds of papers shuffling._

 **AL:** Emily and William, I think. You really don't have to talk about them.

 **DS:** It's fine. I might as well. I don't know when they reconciled. It must have been shortly after Emily left. She forgave William. For everything. Sometimes I think I'm the only one that has a hard time forgiving him. Mulder did. Emily did. Why can't I?

 **AL:** Um….can I, can I ask you something? Just really quick.

 **DS:** Yeah.

 **AL:** Did you know Regional Secretary Praise? He was the South Regional Secretary for about eight years.

 _Shuffling sounds_. _Clicking on keyboard._

From...2049 to…2057. Did you know him? Did you work with him?

 **DS:** He didn't work with us. I met him when he was a child. Why?

 **AL:** He signed Mulder's Will. I was just wondering how the both of you knew him.

 **DS:** There were these people that were, um…they wanted to hurt him. We were trying to protect him. He was kind of a prodigy. A chess prodigy.

 **AL:** Why would someone want to hurt him?

 **DS:** I don't really know. People who were upset that he took their championship titles from them, I guess. He played the best people in the world and always won. I guess some people were bitter about that.

 **AL:** He must have been a genius.

 **DS:** He was. He really was. I don't know what this has to do with William or Emily, though.

 **AL:** It doesn't. I was just wondering if you knew him. And…South Region? Why didn't you just get it signed here?

 **DS:** Well, there was a lot going on here back then. You probably don't remember all of that. And he came through here a few times during all the traveling he did. So, he did it as a favor.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2049, Dana Scully_

I couldn't believe that it was him.

I still don't.

I have sat here for hours now, going over what he told me, and shaking my head in disbelief. I feel like I should tell someone what's happening. I want to call Monica, but I should sleep on it first. If I ever get to sleep. Should I even tell her this? There's nothing she can do about it either.

I don't get visitors. When there's a knock at the door, it's usually NAU Intelligence, here to do their searches. I have to let them in. I was ready for that when I opened the door, to see them standing there with their scanners and devices, but I usually have a little bit of a warning. The Mexican government guy will call, half drunk, and tell me in Spanish they are on their way after they've left his home. I'm not sure why he does that. He's the first house on the ridge, so he calls all of us down this road to give us a heads up.

It amazes me that Intelligence is this predictable. I would think they'd want to do this randomly instead of following the same pattern from house to house. But I get the impression that the ones who show up here are being punished for something. Kind of like how Mulder and I were punished by being assigned to background investigations. I wonder what these men and women have done. Did they also uncover a government conspiracy?

There's always four; at least one woman. They stand at the door and recite the statute to me that allows them to do this. They always read it from a tablet or a phone. Why don't they just memorize it? I have. I've heard it enough. They read it kind of like how cops used to read Miranda Rights. I let them in, and they quickly set up their equipment. They've gotten the whole thing down to forty minutes.

They check to make sure I'm not accessing a hidden or unknown network. They check to make sure all my devices are accounted for and registered. They check to make sure I haven't had any overnight guests I didn't report. They check to make sure I have no firearms or weapons of any kind. They check to make sure my car has the same amount of gasoline and tire pressure that I last reported. They go out into the yard and scan the ground for disturbances or holes. What do they think? That we are burying treasure out here? Or bodies?

The woman is here to examine me. Sometimes she's nice, but most of the time she's not. Aside from disbelief at how I look at my age, she doesn't seem concerned about it. She asks me if I've gotten any tattoos, piercings, scars, or had any surgeries. She asks me if I've had any cosmetic surgery. Of course. I expect a question like that. After she's tapped through her checklist, I have to strip naked and let her confirm I'm not lying. When they used to do this to both Mulder and me, a man taking him in one room and a woman with me in the other, he always said something to irritate them or shock them. Usually something about how we are swingers and we will need to switch off in ten minutes.

So, that's what I was prepared for when I opened the door. That was what I was expecting.

It wasn't Intelligence.

It took me a minute to recognize him. Gibson. Standing right in my doorway. He explained to me how he found me, but he didn't really need to. Anyone can find me now. I hardly heard anything he said. I was too busy trying match up the boy I remembered with the man standing in front of me.

I think he's taller than Mulder was. He's filled out, and filled in, in all the right places. The voice that comes out of his mouth is deep; a man's voice. The only thing the same is the expression on his face. He always looked so serious as a child; unimpressed, unamused. It was out of place as a child, but it fits him as an adult. He still looks at everything the same way, including me. I know he can hear me. I know he can hear what I'm thinking. I know we were thinking the same thing: you should look older than this and you don't.

He explains it to me, though, where he's been, and why he looks this way. He seems to know things about me I didn't think he would, but he can hear me. I know I must be loud to him. I know he can hear everything. Including guilt. We just forgot about him. I hope he can hear how sorry I am for that. Why did we forget about him? We should have looked for him. He wouldn't have aligned himself with _her_ now. He doesn't elaborate, but he says she saved him from something. I don't believe it. It doesn't seem like something she would do, even though he insinuates she's changed.

I still don't want to believe it.

I don't know how long he was here exactly, but nothing he's come to tell me is good news. He's come to tell me what Mary is doing. What, he says, she's doing by her own choice.

I don't want to believe that either.

But wasn't this coming? This day, this time, for Mary, and for all of us was coming. Why does it have to be now? Why does it have to be her? She was fourteen ten seconds ago, eighteen only a second ago, but she's twenty-two now. God, when did this happen? We have the same birthday, and I should know better than anyone. I send her a card every year.

I have a hard time believing she wasn't forced into this or manipulated somehow. I have a hard time not believing that _she_ forced or manipulated Mary into it. But Mary hasn't had anyone looking out for her in a long time. And she was just here. She didn't tell me. I'm her grandmother, and she didn't tell me. It hurts me for a second, but I try to put this off on her parents. Why didn't they warn her? But we are all at fault. It takes a village.

Gibson just wants to help, though. He's not here to upset me. I'm still puzzled by why he would even want to help, why he would come all this way to tell me. And behind _her_ back? Why is he doing this? He doesn't really say why.

I cried for a long time after he was gone. It wasn't really because of Mary; it was what he told me afterwards.

"Before I go, there's something else I wanted to tell you," he says. His expression changes. Something in his eyes softens for a minute.

"What?" I ask him.

"Do you remember that other agent? I don't remember her name, but I told you that she was worried about you and you were worried about her? Do you remember that?"

I tell him that I do. How could I forget her?

"You really didn't have anything to be worried about. I knew why you were. But Mulder wasn't thinking about her. He was only thinking about you. He thought about you all the time. Everything he did was for you. He was really in love with you. I never understood why you were so worried about him and her. He loved you. Just you. Only you."

I remember that. I remember what he said to me all those years ago, and something breaks inside me. I can't stop the tears stinging my eyes. I can't stop a feeling, swelling up inside me, something like relief. Something like closure. I'm surprised I'm reacting this way. That was a long time ago, and I'd forgotten all about it.

He looks worried. He sees the tears in my eyes.

"I know it's a million years too late," he says. "I don't know why I didn't just tell you that. But sometimes I liked to play with people, like chess pieces."

I don't know what to say. I just look up at him. It feels strange to look up at him. I used to look down at him. But I can't believe he remembered that after all this time. It almost seems like he's been waiting to tell me; like he's been carrying this around with him for years.

"Anyway, I know he told you how he felt later. I just wanted you to know that."

I hug him. I just went over to him and hugged him. I've never hugged him before. Maybe I needed to hear this. Maybe I needed to know, even though I always knew he loved me. Only me. Just me. Gibson hugs me back after a second or two. I know I caught him off guard. Has anyone ever hugged him before?

"I didn't meant to upset you," he says, looking a little flustered.

"No…it's…thank you for telling me," I say, pulling away from him.

I try to wipe my eyes. I feel a little embarrassed by my reaction, but I needed to hear this. I had my assurance. I know he loved me, but knowing that he did then, when I was full of doubt, when I was afraid I might really lose him; it feels better to know now. I feels better to have this part of him that I didn't before.

He tells me he needs to go and that he'll let me know of anything. I ask him to please watch out for Mary. I can't do it. I am powerless now. I can't do anything. I can't go anywhere. If I could, I would just drag her back here, and Emily would lock her in a room and never let her out.

"I'll guard her with my life," he promises me.

I believe him.

* * *

William was dozing off a little bit when he heard someone come downstairs. He thought it was Emily, but he was surprised to see Mary. She wasn't in her uniform. She set her luggage beside her as she filled her travel mug with coffee that had been brewing all night into the morning hours.

Emily had given in to exhaustion a couple of hours ago and went upstairs to get some sleep. But William didn't want to leave his father. Mulder wasn't as scared of them now as he was, and William didn't really want to leave him alone.

They'd given him clothes to wear, more water, some food, and now he was just sitting in the same spot on the couch, looking around at everything, concentrating on each thing for a handful of seconds before looking at something else. He didn't seem tired at all.

Emily wanted to examine him a few hours ago to make sure he was okay. She had to patiently and carefully explain what she was doing, like she was talking to a child.

"I need to listen to your heart," Emily had said to him when Mulder had tried to push the stethoscope away from him. "I'm not going to hurt you. Look," she demonstrated on William. "That's all I'm going to do, okay?"

Mulder nervously let her listen to his heart, check his reflexes, take his temperature, and shine a light in his eyes. Emily said he was just fine, but his body temperature was low. It would probably warm up over time.

Emily and William had went upstairs into the attic, then out into the garage to find pictures of Mulder. They'd pulled out all of their old phones and devices, searching through the images looking for pictures of him with their mother. They really didn't have that many; their mother had most of them, and they had none at all of them when they'd been in the FBI. There was no recognition when they showed him; he didn't know who she was or who he was. William even placed a bag of sunflower seeds in front of him, hoping that would help somehow, but his father didn't seem to get it.

"You used to eat those all the time, remember?" William asked.

He looked at the bag, then back at William, his expression blank.

He knew what things were. He understood language. There was just no meaning. Sunflower seeds were just sunflower seeds. Emily was just a woman. William was just a man. Everything was just as it was; face-value, no meaning behind it or memory of it at all.

Emily had pulled William over to the side, making sure Mulder couldn't hear them.

"We should just leave him alone," she whispered. "Give him some time. It's not going to help anything if we're just throwing all this at him at once."

"Well, he can't just sit here and think we're all strangers."

"He can tell we're upset! He can tell we're wanting him to do something that he can't right now! How will that help anything?"

William didn't want to say she was right. What if he started pretending to remember things just to shut them up? That would be worse than no memory at all. And Emily would know better than anyone what it was like to have no memory of something, then have it all come rushing back out of nowhere. She was thinking about that right then. He could hear it.

"I guess," he replied. "I guess there really isn't a rush right now." He turned to look over at his father, vacantly staring around the room. "I just wanted him to recognize me. I wanted him to be happy to see us again."

"I know," she rubbed his arm. "He will, though. Give it time."

So, they'd tried to leave him alone the rest of the night, answering any questions he had. He didn't have many. Then everyone slowly drifted off to sleep except for William.

He went over to Mary as she made her way to the door.

"Are you leaving? Already?" He asked her. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," she replied tersely. "I did what you wanted, and now I have to be somewhere."

Where would she need to be that would be more important? They'd just raised her grandfather from the dead. What could be more important than that?

William wished for a few fleeting seconds that she was still the little girl that used to stretch out her arms to him, wanting him to pick her up. She used to cuddle up to him when she sat on his lap, enjoying all the voices he did when he read her stories to her. She'd really loved fairy tales.

But, instead, there was a woman standing in front him, staring at him angrily, resentfully. Through all the fear and regret, he felt pride when he looked at her. She'd risen through the ranks of the Guard into a Sergeant Major. Or was she a Lieutenant now? He didn't dare ask. He was her father, and he should know this.

"I wish you'd stay," he said to her.

She ignored him and looked into the living room at her grandfather, who was looking at her back with a vacant stare.

She set her luggage down and slowly went over to him, kneeling in front of him.

"I know you don't remember me," she said quietly. "And I know this means nothing to you right now, but I never got to thank you. For being there for me. I never forgot it."

Mulder continued to look at her, but he clearly didn't recognize her.

"We missed you," Mary said. "I'm glad you're back. I hope I can see you again soon."

She stood upright after a second or so, then went right past William out the front door. He followed her out to her car.

"What were you talking about?" He asked her as she put her luggage in the trunk. "Be there for you?"

"It's very simple," Mary replied indifferently. "He was there for me when _you_ were not."

William just stood there, unable to reply, as she backed out of the driveway and drove off.

There were too many instances of him not being there for her that he couldn't even remember. How bad was that? They were countless. But when had his father been there for her? William had thought they'd never really interacted much.

William went back inside, still thinking about it, when he sat down next to his father.

"Who was that?" His father asked him.

"Your granddaughter, Mary," William replied, suddenly feeling exhausted, wanting to sleep for days.

"I thought she was my granddaughter," Mulder said, nodding to Eve who had fallen asleep sitting up on the other end of the couch, a pillow under her neck.

"She is," William said. "Mary is, too." He hesitated for a second. "You have three. Esther is upstairs."

"And he's my grandson?" His father nodded to Ephraim, who'd fallen asleep in the recliner. Ephraim and Eve had wanted to stay down here with him, wanting his attention like they had when they were little.

"Yeah," William answered.

"And you're my son?"

William nodded.

His father was looking him over carefully. "How old are you?"

William sighed. "I'm sixty. Well, almost." He paused. "We don't really age. I mean, we do. It's like we reach a certain age then it just stops. We get it from her." He nodded to a picture of his mother, all of them still scattered all over the coffee table. "She still looks like that. She's ninety-seven now."

His father looked at the pictures, picking one up, then set it back down again.

"You're a hundred now," William said, realizing just then they hadn't planned it this way. "Well, you will be in a couple of months. Or I don't know. Maybe this will be your new birthday or something. You weren't like that. You weren't really like us. You might be now."

"What was she talking about?" Mulder asked him, nodding to the door.

"I don't know," William answered sadly. "But apparently you were there for her. When I wasn't."

His father said nothing, and continued looking around.

"I wasn't a good father to her," William said, not sure why he was saying it out loud. "Or any of them really."

His father looked over at him, listening.

"I would just do things," William continued, unsure of why he was even saying this. "I'd think I could fix it later. But later never came. Then there was just this pile of things I needed to fix, and I couldn't. Just…there was no way to fix it. I'd let it go for too long."

His father continued to listen, but William could tell he wasn't remembering anything. Maybe it was good he didn't remember anything just yet. Once he did, was he going to hate him all over again? William wasn't sure he could face that.

"I wasn't a good father," William admitted. "I let people down. I just…I don't know why I did that."

William thought about all four of his children, how he'd been so damned thoughtless and absent. It wasn't worth it. There were many, many times he'd forgotten what was really important and this was the result. His children weren't completely terrible, but they could have been better, done better, had he paid more attention to them. They hadn't asked for the mess they'd been born into.

And that mess was his fault. He'd thought protecting them from a distance had been the best thing, but it really hadn't been. He'd left the triplets with a drunk mother most of the time and shipped Mary off to the academy. They weren't completely fucked up, however. Eve had been Miss NAU, Ephraim composed music for films and television, and Esther…he wasn't sure what she did now. Didn't she go back to school at some point? And Mary was in the military. It could have been worse, but it could have been much better. They might all actually like each other now.

He sank down into the sofa cushions, the weight of it all making him heavy. He didn't know if his father should know this about him. He might be ashamed of him if he started to remember things.

They were quiet for a time. William could hear someone stirring upstairs as the sun came up. Eve shifted in her sleep.

After a while, his father leaned over towards him, looking concerned. "Was I a good father to you?"

William looked at him for a moment, remembering when he'd first met him years ago. He'd been happy to see his son back then; happy to spend time with him. Happy to know him. Proud of him. Loved him.

"Yes," William replied. "The best."

* * *

 **DS:** Gibson doesn't really have anything to do with any of this, though. He just helped that time.

 **AL:** I know. I just thought maybe he'd worked in the FBI or…

 **DS:** No.

 **AL:** Okay.

 **DS:** I think that, um, William might have known him. I think they met each other once, but I don't know when or under what circumstances. Probably when Gibson traveled up North.

 **AL:** Did Emily know him?

 **DS:** Probably not. But they haven't really…we've never been an open, honest family. Or close. So, if she does, I wouldn't really know.

 _Sounds of DS getting up and walking around the room._

It's become my job, my unofficial job, to kind of manage who's here and when, so people that don't want to see each other wind up here together. That hasn't been a problem for a long time, though. I don't really see or speak to any of them much anymore. I don't think all of us have ever actually been together under one roof before. Like how most families spend holidays together? We don't do that.

 **AL:** Why?

 **DS:** You have to ask?

 _Long pause._

 **AL:** Maybe there's –

 **DS:** I wish we all could have done that. Been together, all of us, when Mulder was still alive. Just once. Not even for that long. A couple of minutes maybe. Just so we could see ourselves in all of them. Because we are. They are all a part of me and a part of him.

 _[End of recording.]_

* * *

Simon Doggett played the whole thing for everyone again, even though they'd all heard it before they came.

There was way too many of them for this small house. They'd all come from the same two people; children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren all crammed into the same room. He hadn't realized just how big his family was until they all arrived.

But they had to be here.

"It's her," Simon told them. "Right? Sounds like her?"

"I don't know," his cousin, Jennifer, said. "Isn't she like a hundred? That woman doesn't sound a hundred years old."

"She is, but she's not," his Uncle Michael spoke up. "But that's her. Can we all agree that it's her?"

He looked around the room and everyone nodded slowly, exchanging glances, the mood suddenly shifting into something solemn and quiet.

"So," Jennifer said after a time. "We have to do it now, don't we?"

"Yeah," Simon replied.

There was more silence, then they all tried to figure out who would go where. Some would need to go into the North Region, some to the East, some to Island 3, then most of them to the Memorial.

"Let's go the Memorial first," Simon suggested. "Get them all out of there."

"Including that Skinner guy?" That was another cousin, Chris. "We have to get him out, too?"

"Yes," Michael answered. "Did they ever tell anyone why?"

Most of them shook their heads, asking around the room, but no one really knew.

"Okay," Simon stood up. "Memorial first?"

Everyone nodded their agreement.

They had all promised to do this a long time ago, and now, after years of waiting, watching, and listening, they had to go through with it. It was hard not to notice the dread and anxiety making its way around the room. Even though it had been discussed before, they were going to have to plan it out again. Carefully. Methodically. Timing was everything.

But none of them were really eager to get started. There was hesitation and reluctance as they all quietly tried to sort out who would go where, who would do what, and who should probably stay in the West Region, just in case.

It wasn't the end of the world or anything, but it was a beginning. And they only had one chance, one opportunity, to do it right.


	27. Chapter 28

**AL:** I don't think I've seen it before. I've never seen you wear it.

 **DS:** I'll show it to you.

 _Sounds of DS walking out of the room and coming back._

 **DS:** See?

 **AL:** Oh, it's beautiful. Where did he get it?

 **DS:** It was his mother's. I don't really know why he had it to begin with, but I know he had it that night because he planned that ceremony. He wanted us to do that before he went into hiding.

 **AL:** Do you have his ring?

 **DS:** No. He didn't have one, actually. We just…it never came up. He never had a wedding ring at all.

 **AL:** Why not?

 **DS:** We really didn't need them. I always thought that if we did wind up together, we were not going to be typical. And, at the time, any outward declarations of our relationship would have been noticed. Because that's the point of a wedding ring – to show the world you took a vow and promised yourself to someone.

 **AL:** But you did kind of do that anyway. I know it wasn't legal, but, I mean, it still happened.

 **DS:** Yeah. I don't wear it much. Just when I think about it. After he died, I wore it every day for a couple of years. I felt like it was one way of keeping all that time we were together meaningful. But then I thought that didn't make sense. We just weren't like that. We didn't go through all the prerequisite steps of a romantic relationship, so how could anything as normal as a wedding ring represent what we were? There was nothing traditional about us at all. When we started sleeping together, we didn't talk about what we were doing for a long time.

 **AL:** What do you mean?

 **DS:** I mean we didn't talk about it. We never sat down with each other and said: "Okay, what does this mean? Where do we go from here? How is this changing us?" Because it did change us.

 **AL:** How?

 **DS:** We took great risks to see each other when he was hiding away. So that was one thing. We, um…after we'd been with each other in that way, it was hard to be separated. So…I guess we started that intimacy, then just kept it up for a while. I expected it, you know, each time he came over to my home or when I went to his, I expected it. Then, almost as suddenly and quietly as we started, we stopped.

 **AL:** Stopped what? Stopped sleeping together?

 **DS:** Yeah. We didn't have an argument or anything. I don't really know why we stopped, to be honest. It didn't last very long, though. I told you about all that already, when I wanted to have a baby and I asked him to be the father.

 _Long pause._

For a while, I suspected he was with someone else. I didn't have any solid proof. I knew that if I went to his apartment he'd be there alone. But…there was this woman we both knew. I thought – just for a little while – there was something between them.

 **AL:** I think you told me about her. That agent that died?

 **DS:** No, not her. This woman wasn't in the Bureau. She was, um…she was like an informant. When someone you love goes off to meet with another woman, you don't think they're just exchanging information. But nothing happened between them. And then, like I told you, I got pregnant and we couldn't go back to what we'd been like before.

 _Pause. Sound of phone vibrating_.

 **AL:** Is that mine?

 **DS:** Yeah, I think it's yours.

 **AL:** Sorry about that.

 _Sounds of AL turning off phone and putting it away._

I thought I turned it off.

 **DS:** It's okay.

 **AL:** Your wedding ring is lovely, though. And so unique. I don't think you can find a ring like that anywhere.

 **DS:** No, probably not.

 **AL:** But it's fitting, isn't it? It's like you and him.

 **DS:** Yes.

 **AL:** I wondered why you didn't remarry or find anyone else. I understand now.

 **DS:** Well, I hope that answered your question at least. Rings are symbolic. Lots of people wear them while they cheat on their spouses or go through a divorce. I would hear or read things about married people taking off their rings right before they met with someone else. I always thought that was ridiculous. What's the point of that? It doesn't change anything. So, if I wear mine or don't wear mine, it doesn't change anything either. But I know they're symbolic. That's why it's a circle, a ring. A circle doesn't end.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2054, Dana Scully_

I knew while I was walking back home.

I could sense it before I even opened the door.

Someone is in my house.

Sometimes I leave a light on. It's more comforting to come home and see light in a window. It makes me feel like, even if it's just for a few fleeting seconds, I'm coming home to someone. But this time the windows are all dark.

I go inside and take off my coat, hang it up, and wait for someone to come running out of the darkness and attack me. It makes me feel tired. I don't feel like fighting anyone off right now.

Instead, a lamp turns on beside the couch, and she's sitting there.

I stayed the same, but it seems like she's gone in reverse. With all her scars completely gone, she looks the same as she did when I first met her. Not all her scars, though. I get a little bit of satisfaction that there's still one.

One from me.

It begins just under her lips and stops in the middle of her neck. She tried to cover it up with make-up, but I can still see it.

She smiles at me. It's a beautiful smile. Her blonde hair is long now. She wears it in a low ponytail, pulled over one shoulder.

I don't say anything. I just take off my shoes and set my keys down on the table, just as if she isn't there at all.

"Your house is nicer than I thought," she says to me quietly. "And you're doing a wonderful job. I looked around here and couldn't find any indication at all that children have been here."

I try to think. I think about where the knives are in the kitchen. Intelligence counts them each time they come here, and they always put them back in the wrong drawer.

"Where do you put everything?" She asks me. She looks very curious. "There's no basement. No attic. I didn't find any hidden closets. You have to put all their things somewhere so Intelligence doesn't find it."

Which drawer is it? Is it the one next to the stove? I think about how I'm going to get her into the kitchen. Or close enough.

She nods at me like I've said something she agrees with. "Well," she stands up. "Where are they?"

She came all the way here, walked through my home, went through all my things, just to ask me this?

"You know where they are," I say.

She smiles at me again. Her eyes glow, like a cat's eyes. "No, no. Not them. The other ones."

I can walk right past her into the kitchen. I don't see a gun on her, but I'm sure she has one. An old instinct kicks in, and I almost panic when I don't feel my firearm. I haven't carried one in years, but that impulse is still there.

I say nothing. I stare at her like I'm bored with her. I didn't expect her to get this desperate, but I suppose I'm the most vulnerable. I don't have to think about how she got into my house. She can do anything she wants. The power she has now is unreal.

I start walking towards the hallway like I'm going to my room, but she pulls out her gun.

I stop and look at it. Is she serious? She should know a gun will do nothing to me.

"Oh," she shakes her head at me, her smile getting bigger. It's a warm smile, like a friend welcoming home another friend. "You thought this was for you?" She laughs and walks casually to the back door.

I follow her, then stop when I see what she drags inside.

It's my neighbor, the Mexican government guy, bound and gagged. He grunts behind the duct tape over his mouth, but his eyes are rolling around like he's drunk. I can't tell if he's actually drunk, or she drugged him with something.

The whole thing happens very quietly. There's no shouting or struggling. She hooks her hands under his arms and drags him out into the middle of the living room. She aims her gun at his head. She looks at me like a shaming mother at her lying child. "Let's try this again. Where are they?"

I consider that I won't have time to run into the kitchen for a knife. I won't have time to kick the gun out of her hand. I won't have time to get him out of the way when she fires.

For a split-second, I believe that this is a necessary sacrifice. I silently promise this man I'll do everything I can to make sure he died for nothing. I try not to look shocked or torn. I try not to look like she has me boxed in a corner now.

But she can see it.

So, I pull the lie out of hibernation, well-rehearsed, well-planned, and well-crafted. Once I say this, things are going to happen. We prepared for this a long time ago, but I hesitate anyway.

"I'm not going to just stand here and wait," she says with an impatient sigh. "One more time. If you don't answer me in thirty seconds, he dies. Where are they?"

She cocks the gun this time, and the sound of it makes my neighbor groan. He's trying to say something, but it's muffled and slurred. I'm pretty sure now she drugged him so he wouldn't fight back.

Her smile is gone, and she's looking at me with such anger now. I may have imagined it, but there's a panic there, too. She's desperate.

I start counting down, thinking about how everything will happen after this. How I won't have much time to warn everybody. How I am getting ready to open up the flood gates and possibly drown us all.

I see her finger twitch over the trigger.

"Monica!" I shout. "They're with Monica Reyes!"

She doesn't pull the gun back, and I turn my head, thinking she's just going to shoot him anyway. But she puts it back inside her coat, smiling warmly at me again.

"I hope, for your sake, and his," she nods at my neighbor. "You're telling me the truth." She walks over to me, looking me right in my eyes. "I'll put a bullet in his head and leave him right here." She gestures to the floor. "So, you can explain to Intelligence why there's a dead man in your house."

She's so calm as she says this. No inflection on any of the words.

She zips up her coat and makes her way to the front door. "Where's your phone?"

I don't answer. I watch my neighbor slowly tip over like a boulder on his side.

She digs through my purse until she finds it. She holds it up for me to see, then drops it onto the floor. She smashes it several times with her foot and the butt of the gun until broken pieces are scattered all over the floor.

"No warnings," she says. "I want to see her just as blindsided as you." She lingers there for a minute, looking around. "You really are doing a good job."

She gives me another smile, then finally leaves.

I wait for a few seconds, then run over to my neighbor. I untie him and try to get the duct tape off his mouth as painlessly as I can. I open up each of his eyes and check his pulse. I don't know what she gave him or how much.

I try to drag him over to the couch, but he's dead weight and very heavy. I decide to leave him on the floor, go into the bathroom, and open up all the cabinets, flinging out packets and bottles of pills, until I find what I need.

Whatever she gave him, this will counteract it. I'm not supposed to have it. I guess it was sort of a gift.

I slap my neighbor's face, trying to rouse him.

He grumbles something at me.

"You have to swallow this," I say. "Try to sit up."

He weakly tries to push me off him. I get a glass of water and try to pry open his mouth. "Swallow this," I say again, smacking his face. "You have to take it."

I put one pill in his mouth, and then another one. I prop up his neck so he won't choke when I pour water down his throat. After he spits up a couple, I finally get him to swallow one.

I let him lay back on the floor. I don't realize how much I'm shaking until I sit down. But I can only sit down for a second.

Okay, I think, what next? What was the next part?

I run back into my bedroom and open up my laptop. I don't know when Monica will see this or if she will even check this mailbox. I'm having a hard time remembering the email address we set up. I never wrote it down. I had to memorize it, and we couldn't make it easy to figure out.

After I think I have it right, I type out a message for her and hit send.

 _She's on her way. Call them. All of them._

* * *

"Can I go outside for a little while?" Mulder asked.

William was startled out of a half-sleep. He was sitting on the couch, and had been fighting sleep for the last couple of hours. But he ended up dozing off for a few minutes anyway.

"Outside?" William asked.

"Yeah, I just want to go look around."

Everyone was awake now. Probably not Madison just yet. The twins came downstairs with Sophia, still in their pajamas, their hair sticking up every which way from sleep.

Timothy stopped as he passed by and stared at Mulder wide-eyed, his jaw dropping. Tamryn ran into him, then turned to see what he was looking at, the same expression coming over her face.

"Don't stare," Sophia said, taking their hands, and leading them into the kitchen.

They didn't listen to her. They sat at the table, gawking at Mulder in fascination.

"Those are your great-grandchildren," William said. "You've never met them. They're only six."

Mulder stared back at them and gave them a nod.

"I said quit staring!" Sophia ordered as she pulled out some cups and filled them with orange juice.

They reluctantly looked away from their great-grandfather, and looked at each other, probably talking to each other in their heads.

William looked around the living room for a minute, then settled on Ephraim. He was awake now and scrolling through his phone.

"Ephraim," William said. "Go take your grandfather for a walk."

"Huh?" Ephraim looked up from his phone.

"Go take your grandfather for a walk," William repeated.

"What? Right now? Why don't you do it?"

William stood up. "Take your grandfather for a walk, dammit!"

"Okay, okay! Jesus, calm down." Ephraim stood up and held out his hand to Mulder. "Come on."

Mulder looked at his hand for a minute, then stood up. He didn't need any help getting up.

William followed both of them to the door, and watched them walk down the road from the window. Ephraim was more interested in his phone, looking down at it while his grandfather walked ahead of him, looking around in pure amazement at everything.

Out of the corner of his eye, William saw Emily stand next to him.

"Why did Mary leave?" He asked her gruffly.

"She didn't really say. Probably a hurricane," Emily replied.

William watched Ephraim grab his grandfather's arm when he tried to walk into the meadow across the road. He could hear Ephraim fussing at him to come back here and don't go over there.

"A hurricane?" William said, turning towards her. "Her grandfather is here. Breathing, thinking, moving, and talking. And she'd rather go help with a _hurricane_?"

Emily sighed and walked away. "You know what her job is like. She has to go."

"She didn't _have_ to go!"

"What did you want me to do? Force her to stay?"

He didn't reply. He really didn't want to start fighting with Emily right now. Maybe he was just tired and grouchy. He couldn't see how anything else could be more important than this.

Eve and Esther came down the stairs. Eve went right to the liquor cabinet to make a drink for her mother.

"Don't give her anything," Esther said crossly. "God, you're such an enabler!"

"You want to do it?" Eve countered. "She won't shut up until someone does it for her." She mixed some vodka in a glass of orange juice and went back upstairs.

Esther came into the living room, looking around. "Where is he?"

"Your brother took him for a walk," William replied.

"A walk? Someone might see him."

"It's too early," Emily said. "If Ephraim sees a jogger or someone, he can take both of them down the trail in the woods."

Esther crossed her arms, her default pose, and went into the kitchen. "We're going to Hell for this," she grumbled back at them.

William rubbed his head. "I need to lay down for a little while. I'm exhausted."

"Okay, we can watch him when they get back," Emily said as she sat down on the couch and took out her phone.

William hesitated for a few minutes, looking around the house, listening to the twins jabber at their mother while they ate their breakfast and Eve try to help Madison out of bed and get her dressed.

They were really the epitome of dysfunction. He started to feel guilty about bringing his father back into this environment. And ashamed that his father would see what they were all like now. At least, at the moment, his father had no memory of them.

"Don't think like that," Emily said to him. "He won't be here for long."

William shrugged, then went upstairs to take a nap.

He thought he only slept for an hour, but when he woke up, the sun was setting. He'd slept through the whole day. As he lay there in his bed for a few minutes, he listened to all the voices downstairs. It sounded like everyone was still here.

He didn't really want to get up.

William had thought the hardest part would be bringing Mulder back, but the hardest part of all was just beginning. None of them had really planned what they would do with him, and certainly none of them had foreseen Mulder would have this much memory loss. They were going to have to keep him here until he started remembering, and then…

Then what…?

William didn't know how his mother was going to react to this. She would be happy, wouldn't she? Certainly shocked out of her skin, but she would be happy to see him again.

But he had to remember her first.

William got out of bed and went downstairs. He saw the twins sitting at his father's feet, blabbering over each other at him about a bunch of nonsense. Emily was sitting beside him, scrolling through a tablet. She was showing him images. He shook his head at each one as she swiped her finger across. At least he wasn't scared of them anymore.

"Are you a ghost?" Timothy asked.

Mulder looked down at him.

"He's not a ghost," Tamryn replied. "He's not see-through. Look," she touched his leg. "See? If he was a ghost, my hand would go right through."

"No it wouldn't!"

"Yes it would!"

"Enough," Ephraim interrupted them from the kitchen. "Quit poking your great-grandfather's legs and calling him a ghost! Go outside and play!"

They pouted for a second, then got up and ran out the door.

William went into the kitchen and saw Ephraim, Esther, and Eve sitting around the table. They looked at him soberly as he sat down with them.

"When are we going to tell her?" Eve asked. "Wasn't that the point?"

"When he remembers her, we'll tell her," William replied.

The three of them exchanged a look.

"What if he doesn't?" Esther asked.

"He will," William looked into the living room as Emily showed his father more pictures. His father was taking his time as he looked at each one, but he kept shaking his head. He didn't recognize anyone.

William pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at the time. He had a missed call. He didn't recognize the number at first, then realized it was that interviewer. He'd been ignoring her for a week or so now. He couldn't do anymore interviews for a while, and that girl was annoying anyway.

"Maybe…," Ephraim hesitated for a second. "Maybe we should take him over there anyway."

William frowned at him.

"We can't all stay here until he starts remembering things," Eve said. "It could be weeks or months. I'm _not_ having my babies here!"

"Then that's how long it will take," William said, looking at each of them. "What the hell is wrong with you three? He's your grandfather. He died twenty years ago, and here he is. That should be enough for you to stay!"

William stood up and went into the living room, sitting down next to Emily. He watched his father shake his head at each image, as doubt started to cloud his thoughts.

What if it did take months? What if it took years? It's not like there was a guidebook or website out there they could consult.

But William was worried about the worst possible scenario, the absolute worst thing that could come from this.

What if his memory never came back? What if he never remembered any of them at all?

* * *

Simon took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself before he walked down the row. He didn't deal with death very well, especially if it was someone he knew, and the thought of seeing his grandparents dead in a case of Resin was making him feel light-headed. He hadn't been down here in a long time, and sure as hell didn't want to be here now.

His cousin Jennifer had come down here with him. She had no problem at all walking down the row to where their grandparents, Fox Mulder, and Walter Skinner were.

But he didn't know if he could handle this.

He could hear his father and Uncle Matthew talking in the earpiece he was wearing. His whole family was here in the Memorial, all of them wearing tiny earpieces so they could hear each other and communicate easily.

They decided they should do this part first, and since it was going to require considerable effort and timing to shut down the Memorial long enough, they needed everyone here.

His father and uncle were parked outside of the Center in a truck with a trailer attached. Both had been purchased years ago in anticipation of this. It had taken Simon's uncles several days to make sure the temperature and pressure inside the trailer matched the Memorial. That way, the Resin wouldn't lose its viscosity.

"How many still in Canada?" Simon heard his father's voice in the earpiece.

"Eleven," Chris answered.

"Mexico?"

"Eighteen." That was his Aunt Courtney.

"The Caribbean?"

There was silence.

"Steven!" His Uncle Matthew shouted.

"Oh, uh…looks like the same as before, twelve," Steven answered.

"United States?"

Simon was supposed to answer, but he was fanning his face now. He really felt like he was going to faint.

"We don't know. It's a lot," Jennifer spoke up for him.

Simon knew there were at least six people in the main hallway, and probably a dozen or so in the Arts and Entertainment auditorium. They counted another ten in the Great Depression. He and Jennifer had been adding them all up when a hologram of Richard Nixon came out of the wall and tried to talk to them. They swiped him away, but along came Gerald Ford, then Jimmy Carter. They instructed the Memorial Guide to cancel all holograms before Ronald Reagan showed up.

By then, Simon and Jennifer had lost count completely and had to start all over again.

"We're going to have to set off the alarms anyway," Simon's father said. "Just make sure you all get down to the FBI room when they go off."

Memorial security wasn't onsite. They were in an unmarked building a block away, monitoring everything with cameras and sensors. Simon's cousin Laura was going to pull the app up on her phone and hit the active shooter button. Memorial security would start closing off sections, advising patrons to find a secure room and lock the door.

They'd all rehearsed this, about once a year, for the last few years. They couldn't rehearse everything, however. Certainly not actually taking his grandparents, Fox Mulder, and Walter Skinner out.

Simon and Jennifer would need help unhooking all four cases off the track and getting them out. Then help blocking the cameras, then more help getting each case into the truck. But the first step was confirming how many patrons were here right now. They had to know how many people were in each section.

Simon's first step was to calm down. He wasn't going to be able to do this if he was having a panic attack.

"Hey, Simon," Jennifer called to him. "You need to come down here now."

"Give me a minute!" Simon snapped at her.

"No, come down here! Now!"

Simon started walking down the row, then turned around again. He really needed to get a hold of himself.

"Simon," Jennifer called to him. "There's something you've really got to see."

"Okay, okay, okay," Simon called to her.

He took one final moment of hesitation, and started walking down the row. As he got closer to Jennifer he put his hand up to the left side of his face to block his peripheral vision.

Jennifer turned to him as he approached her. "We've got kind of a problem." She gestured to the case of Resin in front of her.

Simon slowly turned his head, still keeping his hand to the side of his face to block out his grandparents. But when he looked, he took his hand away.

He blinked and looked again.

He looked at Jennifer, then looked back again.

Was he really seeing this?

Jennifer was standing in front of the case with Fox Mulder in it.

But…there was a problem here.

"What the fuck?" Simon exclaimed as he went closer.

"Yeah," Jennifer agreed. "My thoughts exactly."

The case was empty.


	28. Chapter 29

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2038, Dana Scully_

I don't remember what Mulder and I were doing when William called us. It wasn't really us; William called my phone. It's usually me he calls or texts if he wants to tell us anything. It's not much these days. Pictures of the triplets is about all I get. He won't send anything to Mulder. I'm the one that passes messages between them.

They won't really talk to each other when William brings the triplets here to visit. I just thought about it, about the last time I saw them, and counted it out on my fingers. The triplets haven't been here since they were five years old. Madison didn't come that time. William said she wanted to go visit her family. She doesn't consider us a part of her family at all. It's just as well. Mulder and I hardly know her. Our daughter-in-law; our son's wife. We don't even know her.

He and I have all these "shoulds" lined up; things we should do, things we should say, grandchildren we should see.

But we don't.

We will regret it one day. Him more than me, because I have more time than he does.

But William called me.

I saw it was him, and left the living room to answer it. I always do that. Like talking to my own son is some kind of horrible secret.

"Hi," I answer.

"I need you to go pick up Mary," he blurts out. He sounds frantic.

"Mary? Why?"

"I don't have time to explain it. Can you just go to her school and get her?"

I can hear people talking around him. Where is he? In a bar? "At her school? Why is she there this late?"

"Just go get her!" He sounds impatient and rushed.

"Where's Emily?"

"I can't….uh…I can't call her."

"Why? Is she in the middle of surgery?"

He sounds like he's annoyed with me; as if I'm supposed to get something I'm clearly not getting. "Don't call Emily. Don't tell her anything. Just go get Mary!"

"Is Mary in trouble? Why is she at school this late?"

"Stop asking and go get her!"

I'm getting angry now. I must have been talking louder than I thought, because Mulder comes down the hall to our room. He asks me silently who it is, and I put the phone on speaker.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me why," I say to William.

He doesn't say anything for a minute. Who are all those people in the background? Where is he?

"I, um…," he pauses for a second, then rushes through the rest of it. "I told Mary I would take her to this dance at her school, this father-daughter thing. And I can't go. She's there right now waiting on me. Can you just please go get her?"

I sigh and shake my head. He does this. Probably more often than we know. He likes to promise Mary things and never goes through with it; making her happy in the moment, only to let her down later.

I see Mulder striding across the room, ready to say something. I hold up my finger for him to wait.

"Why can't you be there?" I ask William. "Where are you?"

He doesn't answer.

"William," I say. "If you promised her, then you need to – "

"I can't!" He yells. "I just can't!"

Mulder grabs the phone from me and shouts into it. "What the hell is the matter with you?! Get your ass over to the school and take your daughter to the fucking dance!"

He hangs it up, flings it onto the bed, and storms down the hall.

I count down from ten, and take a couple of deep breaths so I don't go back out into the living room and say something I'll regret later. I wait for William to call back, but he doesn't. I get my phone and walk down the hall. Mulder is sitting on the couch, his jaw clenched, his knee bouncing up and down with nervous anger.

"Don't go," he says. "Don't help him."

I think before I answer, choosing my words carefully. "I don't want Mary sitting there all by herself. It's not safe."

"There are probably teachers there! He has to learn he can't do this shit! He can't keep lying to his daughter, then expect you to keep covering for him!"

I could say something right then. Something about how William is his son, too, and it shouldn't be up to me to put out these fires. But I put myself here. I made this my lot when I still tried to be his mother even after what he'd done.

I go over to the closet to get my sweater.

"Scully…," there's a warning in his voice.

"You can come if you want," I reply coolly. "William clearly isn't able to be there, and Emily is probably at the hospital. Mary can't just sit there and wait for him all night."

He looks at me for a minute, thinking. His knee stops bouncing. "Hold on a minute." He gets up and goes down the hall. He slams the bedroom door so hard the picture frames on the shelves rattle.

I look through my phone to see if I have Mary's number. I'm not even sure if they gave her a phone. As I'm scrolling I see Madison's number. My thumb pauses over it. Isn't she close to Mary's school? But Madison is probably getting drunk while three eight-year olds run around her house. I don't know how she does it.

After nearly a half hour goes by, I hear the bedroom door open. When I see Mulder, I almost drop my phone.

He's dressed up in a suit. It's not the black one he wears to funerals. It's the grey one, my favorite one, because it kind of matches his eyes. His hair is combed back. He's shaved all the stubble off his chin. I stare at him, completely astonished, as he sits down and rubs scuff marks off his shoes with a handkerchief.

I haven't seen him like this in a long time. Not since the last banquet we went to. We've skipped some recently. I almost expect him to pull out his badge or tell me we're going on another investigation. I really expect him to say something about a UFO or an alien autopsy.

He looks up at me and smiles faintly. "Looks like I have a date tonight."

I walk over to him. "Are you…are you wearing cologne?"

He stands up and hands me a bowtie. "Are you jealous because she's younger than you?"

I look at the bowtie. It's not the one he wears to the banquets. It's blue with yellow polka dots. I look up at him. Is he serious?

He shrugs. "It's a grandpa tie. I might as well play the part."

I put it around his neck and tie it for him. "Does it have a button that makes it spin?"

"No, but that's a good idea. I'll get one of those for next time."

Next time? A spinning bowtie for the next time William abandons Mary somewhere? Or maybe he'll do the same with his other daughters?

I finish with his tie and smooth it out. "Done."

He nods at me and stands up straight, wanting my approval. I tell him he looks good.

"Do you think she'll remember me?" He's not angry anymore. He seems nervous now.

"Yeah," I reply, looking for directions to the school on my phone. It's an all-girls Catholic school. I can't remember the name of it, but I know generally where it is. "Should we take the train or you want me to drive?"

He shakes his head. "Just tell me where it is. I'll find it," he looks around. "I feel like I should bring her something. Do we have any flowers anywhere?"

"No, I don't think so. Are you sure you don't want me to drive you?"

He shakes his head again and gets the car keys. "I'll be back later." He kisses me goodbye and walks out the door.

I stand in the doorway and watch him leave. I watch him back the car out of the driveway, turn off onto the road, and the headlights glow through the trees as he makes his way up the ridge until the headlights disappear.

There have been many times over the years when I've thought about why we stay together. Even after all we've been through with William and Emily, after all the arguments we've had, after all the times one of us has left the other. Why do we stay together? Why do we always come back to each other? And why did I stay with him here, when I could be thousands of miles away? I had that chance, but I chose to stay here with him.

Then I think about him getting all dressed up to go deal with fifth graders, when I know he'd rather be at home with me. I think about him leaving here to go save his granddaughter – his inbred, alien monster granddaughter – from certain humiliation and devastation. I think about him using up his limited travel time to make sure Mary can go to her dance.

And then I remember that this is why.

This is why I stay.

This is why I love him.

* * *

William walked quietly with his father down the road, the sun casting orange rays through the trees. This was the third time his father had been out today. He seemed to like coming outside and just walking around, looking at everything in amazement, a small smile on his face.

He knew what everything was. William made sure to ask him. He recognized the natural world, but it didn't seem to jog any other memories. It was getting to be a little frustrating. He had retained a simple recognition of objects and how to do certain things – like hold a fork or tie his shoe. Anything deeper than that, anything that provoked emotions or sentiments, wasn't there. William didn't think his father had brain damage or anything like that. It just seemed like certain parts of his father's brain had been turned "off." William was starting think that wasn't an accident or just a side effect from being dead for twenty years.

They'd been walking in silence for several minutes. William hoped someone would cut Madison off before they got back. Or maybe she should continue drinking until she passed out again. He didn't want her screaming about evil they all were in front of his father. It was going to be quite a task to manage her and keep her from saying things she shouldn't. He trusted his children to get her out of the room if she became too belligerent. He was beginning to wonder if he should ask Ephraim to take her back to her house, but he was afraid Ephraim wouldn't come back.

Everyone was getting impatient and listless.

William kicked a stone from his path and watched it tumble to a stop on the side of the road. He wished he knew what his father was thinking as easily as he knew about Emily's thoughts. Just to hear if there was even the smallest bit of remembrance; anything to give him hope. He still didn't understand it: he could hear the thoughts of all his children, grandchildren, and Emily's – but none from his parents. It was still a mystery after all this time.

Mulder slowed his pace for a second. "You said that you were adopted? You said we didn't raise you?"

"Yeah," William replied. "Do you remember that? About when we found you?"

"No, but you never told me why. You never said why we gave you up."

"You never really told me."

His father looked over at him.

"And I don't need to know," William said quickly. "But I got the impression it was difficult for her to take care of me all by herself."

"Why was she by herself?" His father asked, confused. "You said she was…or is…my wife?"

"You never really told me about that either, but, yeah, she's your wife."

His father frowned, slowing his pace again. "So, we were separated? Did I leave her?"

"No, I don't think it was like that. I think you had to leave. I think the two of you had an understanding."

His father frowned even more and came to a stop. William stopped, too.

"I just left her alone to raise you? All by herself? And we gave you away? I wasn't a good father to you, after all, was I?"

"No, no," William said, trying to think of a better way to explain it; even without all the pieces to the story.

William hadn't demanded any explanations all those years ago, and neither of his parents elaborated on why he'd been given up for adoption. He knew now that his father had been a fugitive and had to go hide somewhere, and that his mother had a difficult time trying to raise him and continue her work in the FBI. She'd told him once that she couldn't keep him safe; that she didn't want him to be taken away from her or hurt. William didn't make her explain. It was clearly a painful memory.

"I don't know all the details," William said. "But it wasn't like that. You had to go into hiding. There were people after you. They wanted to kill you. She still worked in the FBI, and it was hard for her to do both: be a mother and an FBI agent."

His father looked ashamed, saddened by this revelation about his past.

"She just wanted me to be safe." William insisted. "To have a good life. And I did."

"Safe from what?"

"I don't know that either. I never made you and her tell me." William didn't want to say why. He didn't want to tell his father about what he and Emily had come to talk to them about. He wasn't ready to relive that.

"I had a good life," William reiterated. "My adopted parents were wonderful. They loved me, and I didn't want for anything."

His father said nothing. He continued walking up the road at a slower pace. William continued alongside him.

"I didn't grow up in a home for unwanted children or anything like that." William said, hoping to ease his father's mind. "You and her must have had a hand in finding the couple I ended up with. They were good to me. Put me in private school. That was a big deal back then. The public school system wasn't like it is now."

William looked over at his father, wondering if that suggestion of the past rang a bell. It didn't seem to.

"Even though I was happy," William continued. "I knew they weren't really my parents. Not biologically."

His father glanced over at him.

"I can't really explain it. They didn't lie to me, but they also didn't sit me down and tell me I was adopted. It was little things. I just wasn't… _like_ them. Like I could see how my friends resembled their mothers or fathers. Habits, features, and the way they talked. I didn't see that when I looked at my parents.

"I asked my mother once about our heritage. It was for a school project. She was kind of vague about it. She said her family was Scandinavian and Scottish and my father's was French. So, when I did my little presentation at school, I wore a kilt and one of those Viking hats with the horns coming up out of the sides. And then I tried to do the whole thing in a French accent."

A smile broke out on his father's face.

William smiled, too. "I looked really stupid. I didn't get a good grade on it either."

His father chuckled, and William laughed right along with him.

"I figured out I was adopted, though," William continued. "It was just always in the back of my mind. I didn't ask questions. I figured there had to be a good reason why my real parents couldn't have me. I kind of romanticized the whole thing."

His father watched him as he talked, a different look on his face now. Softer, wistful.

"I thought maybe, um…you and her were like teenage lovers or something. That you had no choice but to give me up because it was like some kind of Romeo and Juliet thing; you came from different families and had to hide it. Or my real mother was a princess and she fell in love with a common man, then the king and queen made her give me up. I really let my imagination run away with it. I came up with all kinds of stories in my head; all kinds of possibilities."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the sky getting darker. William didn't want to turn them around yet.

"Just in case you're wondering," William said. "I never told you that before. That's not something you should remember."

His father nodded.

William looked over at him, remembering the day he saw his father for the first time. The day he felt like two missing pieces – one that came from his father and the other from his mother – collided somewhere inside him. He'd forgotten what that felt like. He'd forgotten how that connection affected him. "When I saw you and her, it was like…I don't know how to explain it, but the face I saw in the mirror every day. I recognized it finally. When I saw you and her, I knew that was who I saw when I looked at myself."

His father stopped walking again. William stopped, too.

"I still see it," William said softly, surprised to feel a lump forming in his throat and his eyes sting with tears. "Every day. Every day of my life, I see you. And her, too."

His father looked at him for a long moment, then carefully put his hand on William's shoulder.

William read his father's face. He wasn't remembering, but he was trying to. He really wanted to. William had mixed feelings about it now. These moments with him were not going to happen anymore once his father remembered what William had done. He dreaded that. But they hadn't brought Mulder back for themselves.

"I see it, too." His father said quietly.

William tried to smile, but he knew it was a sad smile. He turned around and walked with his father back to the house, an idea slowly forming in his head. Maybe if Emily and each one of the triplets spent some time alone with Mulder, just talking to him, his father's desire to remember would increase. And that might increase the chances of it all coming back. Memories were connections to people more than anything else, and each of them had a connection to him in some way.

Although…William wasn't so sure he wanted his father's memories to return. Not yet. It was nice to talk to him without any of the angst and tension hovering between them.

"What, um…," his father began, looking around as if he wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. "What did you like when you were in school? Was there a particular subject that you liked?"

William wondered why he was asking that. "No, I didn't like any of them actually."

His father looked mildly surprised.

"I mean I liked to read. I just didn't want to read anything they made us in school. I liked…weird things. I liked reading about stuff that's 'out there,' you know, fantasy-type stuff. Other worlds, other realities. Things like that."

William knew why he'd gravitated towards those subjects now. It made sense now. William also knew he'd gotten that compulsion from his father. Both his adopted parents were down-to-earth and logical. His adopted mother was an engineer and his adopted father a chemist.

"But I ended up majoring in political science in college," William said. "My adopted parents wouldn't help me pay for it if I didn't choose something that would guarantee me a good career."

"Where'd you go to college?"

"Oxford. It's over in the –"

His father stopped cold, like he'd ran into a wall.

William stopped, too. "What?"

"I remember that."

"What? Oxford?"

"Yeah."

"I never told you that before."

"No, no, no," his father closed his eyes and stood there for a few seconds. "I was there. I think I studied there."

William's heart pounded. He hadn't known that. They'd never talked about it. "You're remembering that now?"

"Yeah," his father looked around as if he was watching something play out in front of him. "I met a woman there." He closed his eyes again and shook his head. "It's just…like little pieces of a conversation we had in the library. She was asking me where the…she asked me where something was and I didn't know."

William came closer to him. "Who was she? Did she have red hair? You remember her name?"

"Hold on," his father held his hand up, a look of intense concentration on his face. "Just hold on a minute."

William stood as still as he could, waiting. Oxford. They'd both gone to Oxford. William felt goosebumps form on his arms. His adopted parents had been adamant William attend a university overseas. He'd had no idea his father had gone there, too.

His father sighed and shook his head. "That's it. That's all I can remember."

"But you remembered something," William said hopefully. "Was the woman her? Was it Dana Scully?"

"No, she wasn't the woman you showed me. She was different…she was um," he moved his hands around, trying to find the right words. "I don't know…just different."

William could tell by the way his father said it she wasn't a good kind of different. A college girlfriend? A bad break up, maybe?

"I never knew that," William said. "We never talked about that. About going to the same university."

His father looked at him, a hint of something in his eyes. A tiny connection, the framework of familiarity slowly building. "I don't know why, but this feels purposeful. Like it was supposed to happen."

William didn't know why either, but it felt that way to him, too. "What was it about that? What was it about saying 'Oxford' that made you remember something?"

His father shook his head. "I have no idea."

William stared at him, making sure to ask his next question carefully. "Is it possible…that you and her, my mother, Dana Scully, had some kind of plan?"

His father looked at him questioningly.

"You chose to be interred in Resin. Before that you wanted to be cremated. Before that you wanted to be cryogenically frozen. There was only one time in your life where you didn't want the possibility of being brought back. But you changed your mind. Did you and her…plan for that?"

His father just looked at him. "Resin? That stuff coming out of my lungs?"

"Yeah. It has the same biological and chemical composition as a placenta. It's like being put back into the womb. It preserves but it also nourishes and heals. It's also very expensive. You and her had to have planned for that. Saved up for it. Maybe you and her talked about what would happen if you were brought back. How to get you to remember things?"

His father continued to stare at him, his expression blank.

William wasn't sure how to explain it or sort through the possibilities swarming in his thoughts. He and Emily had discussed this a million times: why did he choose the Resin? It seemed too extravagant of an expense considering the limited income each of his parents received from their pensions. Most people chose Resin for the same reasons people used to choose cryogenics: they wanted to come back one day.

But rather than bombard their grieving mother with questions, they'd left the subject alone. But now William was wondering about that again. Science hadn't found a way to bring back the dead, but William and his family had a way – a very unnatural way. An otherworldly way.

An alien way.

William watched his father's face, hoping there'd be another moment of remembrance, but he saw nothing. What other words and phrases could prompt his father's memory? Or was it just random, a happy coincidence?

He didn't see how it could be. Oxford was a connection they both had. A connection neither of them knew about until just now. What else was there?

"Was I really dead?" His father asked.

William frowned. "Yes."

"How did I die?"

"A stroke." William paused. "Do you, um, remember anything? Did you go somewhere? See a light?" William wasn't sure if he was prepared for the answer; what life after death really was.

His father looked at him, right in his eyes for a second or two, then looked away. "I want to go back and lay down for a few minutes. I feel a little tired."

They walked the rest of the way in silence, William hoping he hadn't upset his father too much. But he'd remembered something, a little snippet, but the memory had come back. Maybe not a good memory, though. He wondered who the woman was. He didn't really think it had been his mother, though. She'd been educated in the former US. There was a lot about his father he'd never known. Maybe now he would.

Before they got to the front door, William wanted to try a name. A name he thought maybe his father might recognize, one that might prompt another memory. Perhaps another commonality between them.

William looked at his father intently. "Gibson Praise," he said. "Do you remember a man named Gibson Praise?"

He watched his father's face go from blank, to confusion, then to absolute terror.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2061, Dana Scully_

She barely hugs me before she runs through the house, out the back door, then out to the backyard where Albert and Melissa are playing.

I stand at the back door, just watching. Watching all the exclamations and smiles as Mary hugs and kisses each of her children. They stand there talking, Mary with an arm around each of them. They have her eyes – glowing, bright blue eyes. Eyes that came from Emily. Eyes that came from me.

The rest of them is their father, though. Dark hair and skin, the bone structure of the Navajo, an affinity for all things spiritual. I can already see that when they're adults, they are going to be two of the most intelligent, beautiful, and powerful things that ever existed. I see Mary when they smile. I see Leonard Hosteen when they look thoughtful. He was an incredible man, one of the most handsome men I'd ever seen, if I'm being honest. Mulder wouldn't like to hear me say that.

But he was. He really was.

I wish he was here, and we all still hold on to the hope we will see him again. Mary tried to teach them prayers in Spanish, but the twins have mixed it in with Navajo rituals they learned when they were very young. They do some kind of prayer ritual – part Catholic, part Navajo – for their father every evening. I leave them alone when they do that. I feel like it's a private thing for them.

When they come inside Mary is asking them about all the physics books they've read. I feel like they're going to gravitate towards science, especially Melissa. Albert I'm not so sure of just yet. He's more intuitive than his sister.

"Can we build a bonfire tonight?" Melissa asks her mother. Melissa looks over at me. "If that's okay with you. I know you don't want the neighbors to see."

I don't have that many neighbors anymore, but I still try to be cautious when they're here. "A little one," I say. "There's a woodpile behind the shed. You'll have to dig the pit, though. Make sure – "

They're running out the back door before I'm finished.

"Be careful!" Mary calls after them. She turns to me, still smiling; a mother's smile. "Where's David?"

"He went back. He'll be here tomorrow night to pick them up."

Her smile fades. "It goes by too quick."

I agree. We go sit in the living room, Mary making sure she can watch the twins from the window as we talk.

"Do you need anything?" She asks me. "Any money?" She reaches for her bag. "I know they eat a lot, because they're growing up so fast."

"No," I shake my head. "You keep it. You'll need it later." I look at her curiously. "You got here awful quick. Were you close by?"

I see her face turn red. She always blushes when she's hiding something. She's been like that since she was little. Just like her mother; they're very bad at keeping secrets. Mary tried to hide her pregnancy from me, but I knew. I always know.

"No," she says. "Well, kind of. I was at the Memorial."

I watch her face. Whatever she's hiding, I'm sure it's not another pregnancy. "Is he coming? I haven't heard from him."

"He is, but, um…," she glances out the window, then back at me. "He said someone from the Archives contacted him. They want to interview him."

I'm baffled. "Why him?"

"I don't know, and he doesn't either. He declined it, though." She pauses. "Has that girl that's been talking with you said anything?"

"No." I turn to look out the window, too. Albert and Melissa are making a fire pit like they've done it thousands of times. I can tell they're talking to each other. Not out loud, but in their heads. Mary had to make them talk out loud when they were little, telling them that not everyone can communicate that way.

I think about the day when no one here will have vocal cords. They'll be useless; left over from another time. Like wisdom teeth or the tail bone.

"She has no idea," I say to Mary. "I think she wants to help me, though. I can tell she feels sorry for me."

"Then everything will happen the way it's supposed to."

I nod. "The way it needs to."

There's an understanding between us for a few minutes. I think about if we are really and truly ready for this. I look outside and wonder if Albert and Melissa are ready. They know what's coming. They've been aware of it their whole lives, and Mary has never kept anything from them. She didn't want to be like her own parents.

We sit around the fire later in the evening. The twins sit on either side of their mother, their heads on her shoulders. She's telling them a Cherokee legend they've heard a million times, but they always like her to tell them. I've heard it a million times, too. It's a nice story. I always find something new in it each time I hear it. Something new to think about. This time, I think about how it starts – at the very beginning of creation with the First Man and First Woman. They sound more real to me than Adam and Eve.

I watch Mary with her children through the red and yellow flames. I envy them a little. I didn't get the chance to have these moments with William or Emily. I didn't get to see them grow up. Strangers shaped their personalities and values. Strangers got to see them at their most vulnerable and their most accomplished. What I met all those years ago was a finished product; nurtured and guided by others. Why can't someone invent a time machine already?

I hear the sound of a car, and turn around to look. I see headlights through the windows as someone pulls into the driveway. Mary and the twins stand up.

He's here.

* * *

"We're going to have to call her," Michael said, pulling out his phone.

"No!" Simon's father grabbed Michael's phone out of his hands. "They told us no contact with her. Absolutely none! No matter what!" He pointed to their parents, John Doggett and Monica Reyes, floating in their cases of Resin next to the empty one that Fox Mulder had been in.

"I think we can break that promise for this!" Michael said harshly grabbing back his phone.

"Hey!" Courtney shouted, coming to stand in between them. "Let's talk about this for a minute. Maybe we should take a vote."

They were all in the FBI room now. They hadn't believed Simon or Jennifer. Chris had come in from Canada with holograms of Wayne Gretzky, Alanis Morissette, and Tecumseh following him. He was still trying to swipe them away. Carlos Fuentes had followed Courtney in from Mexico. Laura and Amy brought holograms of Bruce Springsteen, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Sojourner Truth. No amount of swiping made any of them dissolve. They were just going to have to put up with the historical audience for now.

How could Fox Mulder just not be there? Steven was behind the case now, still trying to figure out how someone had gotten Mulder out of there without any of the Resin draining everywhere.

"It's like he just…disappeared," Steven said. "This case hasn't been opened or moved at all." He went to the front again to look it over. "There's a hatch in the back, but it's locked up tight. There'd be dried up Resin all over it if he was taken out that way."

"Maybe they cleaned it up," Simon offered. He was standing just outside the row, his back to everyone so he didn't accidentally catch a glimpse of his grandparents. "But I don't know why anyone would steal his body."

"Something's not right," Alisha joined in, she looked over at her twin sister, Elizabeth. "I think Jack's right. We shouldn't tell her anything. Not yet."

Simon heard his aunts and uncles break out into an argument. His cousin Chris came over to stand next to him. "Refusing to look isn't going to change anything," he said quietly. "They really don't look that bad."

Simon shook his head, getting angry. "I just don't want to see it, okay? I don't want to see them like that."

Chris nodded. "What do you think we should do?"

Simon didn't have an answer. Laura and Jennifer came over to join them.

"Yeah, Simon," Laura said, giving him a knowing look. "You're the closest one to that family."

Simon scowled at her. "I don't know."

"We can't do anything else until we find out where he is," Jennifer piped in. "Maybe she had someone else get him out."

"Who?" Laura asked.

Jennifer shrugged. "One of their kids, maybe?"

"No," Simon replied. "They wouldn't do that." He glanced down at his phone to see what time it was. This was taking too long, and he had somewhere needed to be. He felt a mild pang of guilt that he hadn't told anyone about it yet.

"Hey! Hey! Shut up!" Matthew yelled. He was the oldest of all seven of the Reyes/Doggett children. He and Michael were twins, but Matthew had been born first. He never let anyone forget it either.

No one was listening to him.

"I said shut up!" Matthew shouted again.

Everyone stopped then. Except for Alanis Morissette's singing and Laura Ingalls Wilder's monologue about her life.

"Chris!" Matthew yelled. "Simon! Get these holograms out of here!"

Simon exchanged an annoyed glance with his cousins as they went back out into the main room, swiping and calling out "cancel" to get the holograms to dissolve.

"Look," Matthew was saying to his siblings. "If we call her, she'll just get worried and want to come down here. There's no reason she'd have had Fox Mulder taken out beforehand, right? Can we agree on that?"

They all frowned, but nodded slowly in agreement.

Jennifer huffed. "I'm going to have to take them back to Canada," she said, pointing at Wayne and Tecumseh. Alanis was gone, at least. Jennifer left, the two holograms following along behind her.

"So, we're not calling her?" Simon asked after Bruce Springsteen finally dissolved.

"No," Matthew replied. "But I think we need to call somebody. Emily and William."

"No, don't do that!" Simon protested. "They don't know you. They don't know what we're doing."

"Why don't you call them?" Laura suggested, giving Simon another look.

Simon glared at her. "They don't _know_. She wanted to leave them out of it. Do I have to play the video for all of you again?"

His grandmother had left a video with her instructions before she died, recorded on Simon's phone. She'd been very clear that they do things exactly the way she said and didn't try to diverge from the plan in any way. Her voice had been weak and hoarse, but very passionate. She'd finally succumbed to lung cancer after years of all her tumors mysteriously healing with little or no medical intervention.

None of them liked to watch it, and this wasn't the time or the place to see something like that again.

His grandfather had left a similar recording, but none of them had it with them. He'd also been adamant that they do exactly what he said. Word for word.

"Let's just get them all out of here," Simon told them. "Like they said. And take the empty case, too. We can figure out what to do after that's done." He looked at time again. "We'd better hurry up. The Memorial is closing in twenty minutes."

"Hold on," Steven called from inside the chamber. "There's a camera right here. It points right down that row." He went over to Simon's father. "Can you get into it?"

"I can try," Simon's father replied, opening up his tablet. "Is there a number on it?"

"Nope," Steven replied. "Get a picture of it. Maybe we can get some images from it later."

Jack took a picture of the camera and where it was pointing before he disabled it. Everyone else got out all the tools they needed, walked down the row again, and prepared to take John Doggett, Monica Reyes, and Walter Skinner from their final resting places forever.


	29. Chapter 30

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 1999, Dana Scully_

How do we even begin talking about the things we talk about?

Mulder and I. How? I try to remember where those threads of conversation begin, but they're hard to find.

Last night, we were laying in my bed together, laying the wrong way, with our heads at the foot. I don't realize how much light comes in the window from the street until he's here. I always think I should get a sleeping mask or blackout curtains so we'll sleep better, then I'm startled by my thoughts of _us_ sleeping in _my_ bed, in _my_ home. I'm thinking of me and him in those terms now; as a unit, as a _we,_ and an _us_.

I'm planning for a future. Like we'll continue with this until we've taken all those steps. Should he keep a toothbrush here? Should I have one at his apartment? Should I start making room in my closet for his clothes?

My half-hearted invitations are not so opaque anymore, and his responses, to show up at my door late in the evening, and allow it all to happen again – the long, slow dance of kissing and undressing and lovemaking – are expected. It doesn't matter how it starts out or who goes into the other's home. It happens.

I don't know what he thinks. I don't want to know. Not right now. I say that like there will be a later; a debriefing after a tough assignment with our chain of command. It makes no sense. Nothing we do anymore, inside or outside of closed doors and dark bedrooms, makes any bit of sense.

We were talking about death last night. He was trying to convince me, again, that being cryogenically frozen would ensure he could use his body at some point in the future. Ever since he asked me to read over his Will a couple years ago, and started sending me emails of "facts" gleaned from the Internet and periodicals, we have this conversation at times.

I argue with him. Not forcefully, not angrily, but I'm insistent that the ice crystals that form in human tissue would destroy cells and most likely cause a reaction if the body was ever returned to a normal temperature. That was hard for me to type out just now. I think I argue with him because I want to win. I want to be right. I'm not always right, and nothing I say ever keeps him from spiraling down rabbit holes of half-formed, unproven theories.

He's on his side, watching my face. "Is this because you think the soul goes to a certain place? Consciousness is fueled by neurons and synapses in an electrical grid in our brains. Consciousness can exist outside our bodies, but that doesn't mean it goes to Heaven or Hell."

"I never said that." I reply.

"You were going to."

I sigh and turn onto my stomach. "It's a waste of money. If there was a way to reanimate the brain, you'd be a prisoner in your own body."

"What if my consciousness was preserved outside of my body?"

I'm getting tired of this discussion, but I keep going along with it. "Preserved how?"

"Remember those brothers? The one had his brain frozen and his consciousness was affecting his brother? Remember that?"

"You just want to freeze your brain?"

"No." He looks around my bedroom and sees my laptop on the dresser. "Like uploaded into something. Maybe my consciousness could be separated and put into a different format." He points to my laptop. "That's a form of intelligence. A form of intelligence that can exist in different ways."

I look over at my laptop, too, then back at him. "It's also an intelligence that needs commands to work. And energy. If the battery drains, then it isn't so intelligent."

"Well, maybe not quite like a computer, but some kind of shell or holding place. Something to provide what the brain provides: electric waves."

"And a holding place."

"You don't sound like a scientist. I'd almost think you believe it's possible, too."

I can't really see his face. His back is to the window, but I'm sure there's teasing in his eyes.

"If it ever could be possible," I say, "for any of it, reanimating a long dead body and uniting it with the consciousness, it still wouldn't work. You're forgetting about a crucial part of being human: memories."

It looks like the teasing is gone. "My consciousness would have all my memories."

"Not necessarily. Memories have to be formed, recognized, and recalled. They're formed by neural pathways. When you are recalling something, when you recognize something, those pathways replay in the same way when the event first occurred. Even then, that replay is positioned with current awareness. You would have to be aware it's only a memory and not reality. How could that be preserved without the brain?"

"Like computers remember passwords."

"But computers are written by people to do certain tasks. And the computer still needs an action in order to remember. That kind of intelligence is passive."

He rolls onto his back, and he's quiet for a while. I think I may have actually stumped him. I reach out to touch him for a minute, because I can't imagine his body frozen in anything. He's warm laying there next to me. He's warm and alive. I can't imagine him in a chamber of liquid nitrogen, possibly sharing a space with L. Ron Hubbard and Walt Disney. If that's even true. He probably believes that it is.

I think this is an odd conversation to have after making love. Because that means life. It's primal and it's not. At times, it's the thing you need to know you're still living.

He turns to look at me. "Do you think I'd go to Hell?"

I purposely don't answer and give him a shrug.

"I probably would," he says. "You would, too. We are fornicating, aren't we? That's a sin."

I still don't answer him. I realize just then that it's been said aloud. He was trying to make a joke, but now it's been said. I suppose there are worse ways to phrase it, but there are better ones, too.

"I guess it isn't the same as a computer," he says. "A computer would have to do a sequential search until there's a match. It takes longer. But there has to be a query, a cue for it to do that, right?"

I'm thinking about him frozen, just like he is now. I wonder why people would want to be frozen in old age when keeping their youth should be preferable. If this is something that he wants, then it would have to be done now.

But now he'd have to be dead, and I don't want to consider that.

"I'd need a prompt then." His voice is quieter. I feel like he's forgotten I'm here. "I'd need somebody to give me a cue so I could recall things."

He doesn't look at me. He stares up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. I know where this conversation is going.

"If I forgot things, I'd need to read something or hear something. Words, phrases, names." He sits up. "We should make a list."

"No," I gently try to push him back down. "No, Mulder. I don't want to do that."

"Why not? I would need you to have that list. You'd have to be the person to do it."

There are so many things embedded into what he said. Assuming he'd die before me, assuming all this science fiction-y stuff could one day be possible. That's not what catches me, though. That's not what I focus on. I focus on his assumption that he'd remember me.

"Why would it have to be me?" I say. "Losing your memory would mean losing all memories of me."

He watches me for a few seconds, thinking, and then I see a smile spread across his face.

"What?" I ask him.

"You think it's possible, don't you? Say it. Say you believe that dead people can be brought back to life."

I stare at him, trying for irritated, but I probably didn't look that way.

His smile gets bigger. "You think I'm right."

"I think I'm going to sleep." I get up to get under the covers and he doesn't move. I nudge him a little with my leg as I turn off the lamp. After a few minutes, he gets under the covers, too, and lays behind me. I'm a little surprised he's going to stay. This is where we're at now.

He sighs, and I feel his breath on my neck. "Why can't there be one thing, just one that we both believe in?"

"We both believe in finding the truth."

"Okay, two things."

There is two things. More than two. But the one I am thinking of I don't say. Instead I pull him closer to me. It seems from the way he's holding me, he's thinking that, too.

I don't go to sleep. Instead, I lay there going over everything he said. I think about him dying, coming back to life somehow, and not knowing who the hell I am. That's worse. Him being alive and not recognizing me; it's worse than him dead. He wouldn't remember tonight or all the other nights we've spent together. That's far worse.

I can tell he isn't asleep either, so I turn around to face him. "If you had to remember me by something…what would it be?"

He doesn't answer right away. He looks into my eyes for a long time; intimately, lovingly, in a way that I only see at certain moments. It's for so long I forget my question. It's for so long I forget what we were even talking about.

"I wouldn't need anything," he replies finally. "I wouldn't forget you."

* * *

Anne rubbed at her sleepy eyes as she continued scrolling through images on one of the old desktops in the lab.

She didn't know what time it was; certainly well after midnight. She was going to have to stop these late nights. She was making all her redactions and then got caught up in searches for images of Dana Scully's grandchildren. It was something she shouldn't be doing. She was taught in her training to keep a personal distance from the subjects, but she figured if there was any public information out there about Dana's grandchildren, she wasn't hurting anything.

Anne couldn't find Esther or Ephraim. There was an E. Scott Mulder credited in some cinema scores, but Anne wasn't one hundred percent sure that was Dana's grandson. It probably was, but there was no other information about him to confirm it. He was a private citizen, as was Esther.

Anne found Eve, though. Anne went through all the images of every Miss NAU pageant until she found in Eve Mulder in 2051. Anne played the video of her being crowned. Eve was a classic beauty queen, her natural prettiness sculpted and enhanced from years of experience. She'd been doing this since she was a child and it showed. Eve knew exactly where to stand, how to walk, what to say, and how to say it. Since there were only four competing for Miss NAU, the pageant had changed over the years. They still had to parade around in evening gowns and bathing suits, but they had to take part in intellectual discussions and show physical fitness by running through an obstacle course. Eve was able to go from one competition to the next and look flawless, brilliant, and strong. She certainly deserved to win that year.

Eve looked smug when she was being crowned; almost like she'd expected to win. She didn't cry like all the other winners did. Anne also found video clips from that year's Miss Universe. Eve was there, but she was second runner up to Miss Estonia. Anne vaguely remembered people in the Union being excited about that pageant. It was the first time any Miss NAU had ever made it that far.

Anne found Mary, too. High-ranking Guard officials were easy to find, and Mary was a Lieutenant. Anne thought she was pretty despite the severe expression on her face in the images. It was the NAU Guard, though. They couldn't go around smiling at everyone. And there was no mistaking Mary's ancestry with that red hair. Aside from that, Anne didn't think she resembled her grandmother that much; she looked a lot like William. Anne felt sorry for her; disinherited, ignored, and, from what Dana had told her, Mary was basically an outcast in her family. It was a shame. Anne wished Mary had found some kind of happiness in her life. It didn't seem fair to punish her for what her parents had done.

Mary had an array of badges and medals on her uniform. Anne didn't know what all of them meant, and she didn't really feel like researching it. The image of Mary and her rank was the only public information about her. Anne would need a clearance to get into GuardNet and see anything else.

Anne tried to remember which Presidents Mary could have served under. She searched President Covarrubias first. She didn't have to scroll through too many images to find Mary marching alongside Covarrubias back when Mary was a Corporal. There was a particular media clip of Covarrubias in the West with President Hosteen that caught Anne's attention.

First, because it was Leonard Hosteen. Anne zoomed in on him to enjoy the view. Whatever happened to him? She remembered him a little bit because her older sister had pictures of him on her bedroom wall, on her phone, and sat in the living room giggling with her friends each time he was on TV. Now that Anne was older, she understood why. Every attractive male feature on earth, transcending time and culture, was in him. Something had happened to him, though.

Anne noticed something when she zoomed back out. Something between Hosteen and Mary. Anne paused the video, but it had happened so fast she couldn't pause it at the right time. Anne downloaded the clip, along with a voiceover from a reporter speaking in Spanish covering up most of the audio. Anne slowed the clip down and played it frame by frame.

Hosteen's hand briefly brushed up against Mary's hand. Anne slowed it down more, the slowest possible on the lab's old computers. Played in real-time, the gesture looked accidental. Slowed down, Anne could see Hosteen reaching out to brush his fingers across the back of Mary's hand and the way her expression changed as he did so. Mary looked happy, secretive.

What. In the hell. Was that?

Anne zoomed in again, back out, then adjusted the perception several times, turning the video around to different angles. The result was the same each time.

It was purposeful.

Anne's hands shook as she typed in _Leonard Hosteen_ into the browser. She swore at the amount of images there were of him. There had to be billions. She did not have the time or patience to go through all of that. She typed in _Leonard Hosteen with Marita Covarrubias_ and that narrowed the results, but there were still too many. Anne narrowed her search term again to _Leonard Hosteen with Marita Covarrubias 2049_. There was still a lot, but it was manageable. Anne went through each one, scanning each image for a green uniform.

Most of the images were from that failed attempt to get back the Hawaiian Islands. Covarrubias was always photographed with her signature dark glasses and wide-brimmed hat. Most of the Guards with her were cropped out or Anne only saw an arm or half a person. They weren't the focus. Most of the time, the cameras were focused on Hosteen. Gibson Praise showed up in some, too, but it was before he'd been appointed. Sometimes he wore glasses and sometimes he didn't. It was a little odd, but Anne didn't have the time to think about that and kept looking for a red-headed woman in a green uniform.

After hundreds of images and video clips, Anne felt like this search wasn't going to pay off. Maybe she was just tired and had imagined the hand-brush thing to be more than it was. Anything slowed down enough could look that way.

Anne was about to give up, close the browser, and leave when she saw it.

The image was taken in the South Region when Hosteen and his Council came for a visit. Anne could tell it was the South Region by those gigantic alligators in the background. They'd given her nightmares when she was little. Anne saved the image and put it into a software program that would adjust any blurriness from the camera. After she was done cleaning up the image, adjusting the color, and the brightness, she had something that nearly made her fall out of her chair.

There was a tingling in her hands and arms; a feeling like she'd just discovered something like the meaning of life or a cure for all illnesses. She had to get up for a minute and walk around the lab, giving herself some time before she looked at the image again.

When she finally sat back down, she thanked her lucky stars, God, the Universe, all that was Divine that she'd lied to that weird guy in Dr. Wells' office. Anne saved everything to a folder, protecting it with a password, but then she changed her mind transferred all of it to her new phone. She erased all her browsing history, even uninstalling the browser completely, and reinstalling it again. She went over to the shelf where archivists kept disks - compact, floppy, and USB – compatible with each type of computer in the lab. She found software that would completely erase all the memory on the computer she was using and installed it.

With all of that done, when she was sure every digital imprint of her search and results was obliterated, she exited the lab. Nervous, excited, and feeling slightly paranoid, she took the elevator downstairs.

It looked like Mary had found some happiness after all. Should she say something to Dana about it? Did she even know?

When she got out of the elevator, she was overwhelmed by the scent of lemons. It smelled like someone had been making a lemon meringue pie. There was something acrid and synthetic about it. As she walked out the doors, she was greeted with a puff of lemon-scented vapor. Beside the door stood that weird guy from Dr. Wells' office. Anne stepped back in shock.

He put his eMorley in his pocket and looked her over, lingering glances in places that made her feel uncomfortable.

"Hi Anne," he said with a slight grumble in his voice, like he was annoyed at something. "Let's go for a walk."

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2046, Dana Scully_

I stare up at the roof of my house and heave a big sigh.

Here we go again.

I was hoping the dripping coming down the living room ceiling wasn't anything; maybe just some condensation from a couple humid days. But I woke up this morning and found a brown water stain forming on the ceiling. Not big enough to suggest a long-existing leak, but it's wide enough to indicate I might have a problem soon if I don't fix it now.

So. Here I am.

I lay out a tarp on the grass to catch any shingles I have to discard and replace. I don't have any extras to replace them with. I can maybe replace one with a broken solar panel. Maybe I can find some extra glass in the cellar and make a skylight. I hope I can just caulk it and go scavenging for a roof shingle later. One of my neighbors might have one.

The tool belt I wear is something I made. It was once an actual belt, one of Mulder's, that I added loops and zip-ties to hold things. A real tool belt, a professional one with pouches made of thicker material, isn't worth the money. As I climb the ladder, I'm thinking about how it seems like everything I ever learned, in medical school or in the Bureau, is all useless knowledge now. I should have trained to be a carpenter or a plumber. That would have helped.

I get on the roof and go looking for the culprit. I feel like I just did this a couple of months ago. But, no…no, it was probably a few years ago. Mulder was holding the ladder. He never did things like this. I did. He did everything inside the house. I don't know how that happened. I guess it happened the way things always did between us – unceremoniously and without discussion. We would just fall into roles, fall into formation, fall into a routine. He'd vacuum and sweep. I'd go outside to chop the wood. Had I picked up the broom first and not an ax or a drill, I would have been the one sweeping up all his sunflower seeds.

I find a shingle that's a little bit loose. I can't remember when it rained last, but it wasn't that long ago. There are still patches of mud in the yard. The water must have gotten under the shingle, dripped through the crawl space in the attic, and onto the ceiling. I think I can just seal it with some caulk and get by for a while. I don't have any asphalt cement; that's what I need. It's expensive and every time I purchase things like that, they ask me for everything but my Soul. I think if Intelligence could track that, they would.

As I climb down the ladder, a hole in the wooden beam across the side of the house catches my eye. It's an almost perfect circle. I wonder what did that. A woodpecker? As I examine the hole, I see it's far too deep for a woodpecker. Carpenter bees, maybe? They like old wood and the wood in this house must be seventy years old at least. I try not to think about how I am older than my own house. At least I have aged better.

I hear footsteps approaching behind me and turn to see Emily walking up. She said she was coming but didn't say why.

"Hi, Mama," she calls. "What are you doing?"

"The roof is leaking," I mutter, trying to find a flashlight in my belt so I can look in the hole. If it's carpenter bees, then I need to get rid of them. I don't like bees. For lots of reasons.

Emily stands at the bottom of the ladder to hold it for me. "Do you need any help?"

I tell her no. I don't have a flashlight on me, so I climb down. I wipe my hands off on my jeans. "Can you do me a favor?"

She nods. "What?"

"Can you go to the store you passed on your way in? Ask them if they have any boric acid."

"I took the train."

"You can take my car." I go inside and she follows. I hand her the keys and some money.

"No," she pushes the money away. "I can get it for you. Let me do that."

I don't argue with her even though allowing my daughter to get anything for me seems wrong. I don't have much money left for the month, however. The deposits from my pension aren't always on time.

When Emily leaves, I find a flashlight and climb up the ladder to look in the hole. I see something shiny way in the back, and immediately take the light away. I don't want some insect flying out at my face. I move my head to the side and try to look in at an angle. When I'm sure nothing is going to fly out at me, I see something metallic all the way back against an air duct.

I don't know what in the hell it could be.

I climb down again and find some tweezers and tie them to a thin branch I find in the yard. I stick the contraption in the hole to pull out whatever is in there. It takes several tries, but something comes out that, at first, I think is a long black worm.

But it's a wire.

I pull the tweezers off the branch and grab the wire with them. What I pull out astounds me but it's familiar.

I remember these. We used these on informants. They were taped under clothing, placed in pockets, handbags, and Mulder found one in his apartment. They were burdensome, I remember. Too big and the sound quality was always compromised anytime the individual wearing it went near a microwave or cell tower. The Bureau's use of them was limited for those very reasons.

I hold it out from me with the tweezers and almost reach into the pocket of my jeans for an evidence bag. That's still there. After all this time, my instincts, the standard of procedures I learned, are still ingrained in me.

I carefully climb down from the ladder, holding the black microphone out, like it's a snake that might bite.

Why is this here?

Intelligence would not have put that there. What they use is far more advanced, and they have to get permission anyway. It's stupid. I have no rights whatsoever, but because of some statute, some addendum to the Declaration of the NAU, they have to get my signature on any kind of surveillance. I remember one of them saying that to me, then making some remark about how my people didn't do that. She said we would just listen to whoever we wanted without permission.

It wasn't really like that, but what's the point in me arguing with them?

I take the microphone inside and gingerly lay it out on my kitchen table.

 _Why in the fuck is this here?_

It was right up against an air duct, meaning anything said inside my living room would have been recorded. But who? Who would want to record anything in my home and why? Mulder has been gone for five years now. What would be so important for anyone to do this? All they would have gotten was hours upon hours, maybe even days, of silence.

I'm sitting on my couch staring at it when Emily comes back, telling me she had to go to a couple of places to find boric acid.

I don't even need it now, but I don't say anything to her.

She sets a half-gallon of it by the door and looks over at me. "Is everything okay?"

I nod, still staring that microphone. I can't tell if it's still recording anything or not. I don't know how long it's been there. The battery could be dead. "Is everything okay with you?"

"Yes," she says, hesitating a little. She sits down next to me. "I was wondering if I could borrow your dress."

I turn to look at her.

"It's the one you wear to banquets. I think it's peach or pink. Could I borrow it?"

I feel like I've just been caught doing something I shouldn't. I wonder if she can see it all over my face. "I don't have that dress anymore." That night comes back to me so fast, it's like a gust of wind has lifted up my shirt. I'm exposed and can't cover myself up quick enough. "I spilled something on it and couldn't get out the stain. I don't have it anymore. I threw it away."

The words came out too swift. If I was her, I would know I was lying.

Emily looks disappointed, though. "Oh. I see."

"I have a black one," I tell her and go back to my closet.

I lay the dress out on my bed for her to try on. She thanks me and shuts the door. I go back out into my living room and stare at that microphone again. It's old technology. It has to be somebody I know, but I don't know who. Intelligence would have just put some random chip in a drawer. They can do anything they damn well please. There is no way one of them would have taken the time to drill a hole and put a microphone in it.

Who in the fuck is listening to me?

Why?

Mulder is dead. I'm alone now. What would anyone want to listen to now?

The bedroom door opens, Emily comes out wearing my dress, and I forget the microphone.

I swear, she could light up the darkest corners of any room, the darkest corners of the Universe. How is she mine?

She smiles at me, and I must have looked dumbstruck. I must have looked like I'd never seen her before.

"What's wrong?" She asks, looking worried.

I tell her nothing. I go over to her and fix the straps on the shoulders that are twisted. God, how is she mine? I don't think there's ever been a more beautiful woman than her. All mothers think that. All mothers think their daughter is the most beautiful, but I believe I would win any arguments.

"Does it look okay?" She asks me.

She never said why she wanted to borrow my dress. I'm starting to wonder if she's met someone. "What did you say this was for?"

She tells me something about the hospital she works at, there's a thing for the on-call staff. I'm half-way listening. I'm thinking if she has met someone, whoever he is, I want to take him into a room and interrogate the shit out of him. Is that normal?

"Do you want to keep it?" I ask her. It looks far better on her than me.

"No," she says with surprise. "I just wanted to borrow it. It's just one night."

One night with who, I wonder. Is he a doctor at the hospital? I can't imagine, looking the way she does, a man hasn't noticed her. She doesn't even have to try. She could wear anything and still be the most beautiful woman in the room. I can't believe she's mine.

"It suits you," I tell her. "I think you should keep it. There might be another dinner next year."

She tells me she doesn't want to keep it. What would I wear to those banquets? I don't tell her I haven't been to one in a couple of years. It seems like when I miss one, Intelligence shows up more often. Like it's suspicious I don't want free, bottomless alcohol in exchange for being called a vicious traitor all night long.

Eventually, Emily leaves and promises to bring it back. I sit on the couch for a long time, wondering where that microphone came from. It's not the kind that stores information. It's the kind someone listens to from another location, a live transmission over radio waves. The longer I sit there, the angrier I become.

I'm angry because it's pointless. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, I could have said or any of my children or grandchildren could have said that would be important to anyone. It makes me angry because it's more violating in that way. Violation without purpose. How many days have gone by where I've woken up, gone about my day, and gone to sleep without speaking to anyone? They might have heard water running, clicking on a keyboard, a tea kettle, or news on the TV.

No point. There's no point in it.

Was it just for fun? Just a fun thing to do? Someone like me, bored, listless, with nothing else to do with themselves. It occurs to me after some time that this was an amateur attempt. Why didn't they just put it in my house? It would have been easy to do. Stick it in an air vent, in a lampshade, in my closet. So easy, yet they chose to be unnecessarily extravagant about it. I carefully pick up, trying not to leave my fingerprints. If there are any from the person who did this, they'd be long gone by now. I could try, though. I have superglue and transparent tape.

I unscrew the top and a battery falls out, dried battery acid caked on the bottom. It's an old AA, a generic brand from a time long past. It's been there for a while. Maybe since Mulder was alive. I'm shaking with rage. Why? I thought that any invasions to my privacy would come knocking at the door armed with scanners and a statute. Why wouldn't Intelligence have caught this? The irony; if I were to report it, they'd be here in no time, pissed that someone was spying on me that wasn't them.

I grab it from the table and take it outside. I put it on the chopping block and get the ax from the side of the house. I look down at it and feel so much rage pulsing through me. What did it hear? Whose voices did it pick up and transmit to a stranger? I look around me as if they're listening now, watching me now. I know that no one can. All I see are the trees; a crow flies from a branch and perches on the roof. It looks at me, moving from foot to foot.

I bring up the ax and bring it down, pieces of it scatter across the grass. The crow flies off. I don't bother to pick them up. I go back inside and find some caulk.

I feel better, the anger slowly ebbing away.

I stare up at the roof of my house and heave a big sigh.

Here we go again.

* * *

Simon, Laura, and Jennifer rode in an old Tuolumne County school bus in partial silence. The school bus, that Simon's Uncle Matthew had purchased from an auction years ago, hardly qualified as a vehicle. The bright yellow that once greeted schoolchildren of the Old Republic had faded to a pale urine color and the black letters were mostly gone. If one looked hard enough, they would still see the letter's imprints. There was rust all along the undercarriage that creaked out a protest after years of immobility while now flying down long-abandoned interstates towards the East Region.

Matthew had to replace most of the engine, several windows, all the wheels, and the brakes; but the back door alarm was beyond repair. He replaced the gear shaft, spark plugs, and found a heavy-duty battery, meant for large farm tractors, to replace the dead one inside the bus. One headlight was still brighter than the other, and there was a haze on the windshield that never seemed to wipe away with any amount of vinegar or window cleaner. Simon drove it like it was brand-new and completely capable of handling the bumpy, curvy roads.

He hit the brakes as they took an unexpected curve, because the reflective arrows on the dusty guardrail no longer reflected anything. The brakes screeched at him.

"Hey!" Jennifer piped up from a middle seat. "Slow down, you can't drive this thing that fast!"

Simon looked at the speedometer. He couldn't actually tell how fast he was going. The dial seemed to be stuck permanently between 45 and 50 mph. "Sorry. Just trying to make good time."

Laura was in the very back, trying to keep the jugs of diesel and LPG from moving around too much. Their families had been hoarding gasoline and diesel for years, keeping it stored away until they'd need it. When the prices got too high, they began keeping containers of kerosene, "Autogas," and bio-fuel. They'd need lots of fuel for this trip. Stopping to fill up wasn't an option. The last gas pumps in the Union closed in 2056; even if they were still there, Simon, Laura, and Jennifer couldn't risk being seen traveling around in an old school bus.

Flying to the East Region would have taken thirty or forty minutes, and by train they would have been there in just a couple hours, but driving was going to take days. They didn't have a choice, however. It had to be done this way.

Jennifer left her seat where she'd been filling coolers with ice to keep water and food cold before they could stop for more ice again. The vacuum-insulated, voice-operated coolers were too expensive for them to use.

She sat down in the seat just behind Simon. "Are they all going to fit on here?"

"Yeah," he replied, seeing several drops of water splash onto the windshield. He hoped it wouldn't rain. The windshield wipers didn't work. "I mean, they used to pack a lot of kids on these things back in the day."

He looked in the rearview mirror at his cousin. She seemed to be counting out the seats. A couple in the back row had been removed to make room for all the fuel. Since the gas meter on the bus was unreliable, they'd planned out about how many kilometers they could travel before needing to fill the tank again.

He saw Laura all the way in the back, the glow from her tablet on her face. She hadn't said much to them since they left. She was still upset about the Memorial.

Simon didn't help much getting his grandparents, Walter Skinner, and the empty case out of the Memorial. After his father hacked into the power system and all the lighting shut down, except for red emergency lights in the floor tiles, Simon went ahead of everyone as a lookout. He did not want to see his grandparents. It was barbaric. He didn't care how "fine" they looked. They were still dead.

The active shooter alarm system flooded their devices with warnings and an announcement came over the speakers advising patrons to immediately take cover in rooms with bullet-proof doors. After Jack cut the power, the announcement stopped.

The cases had to be removed quickly. Once the power went off, the rows immediately retracted back into the walls, and security had likely entered the facility already. They'd gotten the timing of that part almost perfectly. Getting all of them out of the FBI room and the United States had been done almost as perfect except for a few patrons straggling in the Atomic Era, hiding behind portraits of Harry Truman, his hologram frozen in the center of the room with Jayne Mansfield.

Simon had to reroute everyone down another hallway to a different exit. They'd practiced this; they knew the Memorial's mazes of subfloors, hallways, and rooms better than anyone in the NAU. But they'd somehow lost Laura somewhere. Her phone was the one used to activate the alarm system. Security had probably gotten into it already to make sure it wasn't by mistake.

As they neared the exit, Steven came up to Simon with his antique Remington Spartan. He was going to be the active shooter and let himself be caught to distract security.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Simon asked him.

"It'll buy you all more time," Steven replied. "And they'll see it hasn't been discharged. I won't be kept for long."

Simon looked worriedly at his uncle. Memorial security didn't carry firearms, but they had enough stun-guns and mace to take down an entire jungle full of gorillas.

Simon wanted to say something else, but, instead, he watched helplessly as his uncle ran out into the entrance with his gun to be apprehended. Simon really hoped they'd take it easy on Steven, but he was going to be fined and likely lose his firearm rights for having one inside the Center. He'd volunteered years ago to be the one. All his siblings had families except for him, and he felt they all had more to lose.

The rest of the family left through an emergency exit Simon had made sure no one else was using, hauling four cases of Resin in tarps to the truck. Courtney did a head count.

"Where's Laura?" She asked, looking around.

"I think she got stuck in Canada," Michael replied.

"We have to go back in!" Courtney started for the entrance.

"No, she'll be fine!" Michael grabbed and pulled her towards a truck. "We don't have time!"

"We have to go back!" Courtney demanded.

"I'll stay!" Simon volunteered. "I'll wait for her!"

Michael's grandchildren sat in the cab of the truck. He pounded on the door for them to leave once all the cases were inside. They were barely old enough to drive, but they knew which road to take through the wall. Michael had purchased a special pass that would get them through without anything being scanned.

He grabbed Simon. "We have to go! Laura will get out! She knows what to do!"

Simon followed his Uncle to the trains. Some of them were leaving by train while others were driving. They'd all left Laura behind, and she was still pissed.

She glared up at her cousins for a second from the back, but neither Jennifer nor Simon were paying attention.

"Is Gibson Praise going to be there?" Jennifer asked.

Simon's hands tightened around the steering wheel as a shot of anger went through him. "No. He doesn't need to be there."

Old hatreds die hard, he supposed. The sound of that name still made him angry.

"I just thought since he used to live with them, he should be there," Jennifer said.

"Why? How would that help anything?"

"I don't know, like introductions and stuff. What if they don't understand us?"

"Jesus, they speak English." He took the bus around another curve but made sure to slow down. "We don't need him there. Don't fucking call him either."

"I wasn't," Jennifer said, taken aback. "God, he's not that bad."

Simon didn't say anything. Maybe he shouldn't have participated in this part of it, but the rest of his family was at the Grand Canyon. He didn't really want to do that part either.

His grandfather had purchased some land from the Hualapai decades ago. It wasn't much, but slowly, piece by piece, each of his children had also purchased some land. Now that the Hualapai had the canyon back and it was no longer a protected park, they sold pieces of it for income. They were very strict, however, about what could be built there or what the land was used for. Right now, there were trailers, hundreds of trailers parked all along the canyon. And Simon's family owned all of them.

There were Double-wides, 5th wheels, and RVs, that would otherwise had gone to scrap or sat in a junk yard, fixed up and remodeled. He didn't know the exact number now, but it was enough. More than enough.

Simon looked in the rearview mirror and saw Jennifer frowning at him.

"What?" He asked.

"You want me to drive for a while?"

"Not now. Maybe later, why?"

"You're getting all cranky and shit. I think you need a nap."

He scowled at her.

"Don't you feel a little bit guilty?" She asked, changing the subject. "I do."

"Not really. They knew this was coming."

"Yeah, but…," she shook her head. "It's like we're breaking up a family."

He looked back at her in the rearview mirror. "Don't think of it that way. Think of it like we're finally bringing them home." He looked out at the dark road in front of him, miles to go, miles to drive, but they would be there sooner than it felt like. "Home to be with their real family."


	30. Chapter 31

_Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2050, Dana Scully_

I wish I had a decision-making tree.

The kind they gave us in training. This box leads to this box. This outcome leads to this outcome. You could trace it with your finger. The boxes were all squished on letter-sized paper, printed landscape, or extended to legal size. OSTs stood at copy machines for hours, watching stacks of paper spit out. They'd be warm from the machine. A tiny speck of coffee or water and the ink would run. Sixty PowerPoint slides later, we'd have our information, the update, the standard. This is how you do it. You only have to think of where you need to go next. This box to this box. I liked it. Truthfully, it made sense to me. Everything was in order.

Mulder would ball his up and throw it in the garbage. There were a couple of times I took it out, smoothed out the paper, and gave it back. This is how it has to be done, I'd say. He'd say something about how those things are irrelevant, narrow, and keep us in kindergarten. I'd say we took an oath. Don't you remember? Raise your right hand. Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity. Uphold the Constitution and Protect the American People.

Well. American People are NAU People, and I don't have the burden of protecting any of them. The Constitution is gone. I guess it's in the Potomac. It probably disintegrated as soon as it was out. In 1776 someone killed a sheep and its skin was used to write it on. People liked to say that it was written on hemp. They say it now because it's everywhere. It was just a legend. It wasn't true. Like UFOs or the NAU or secret governments or the New World Order or the Illuminati. It's a myth. That won't happen. It's not true. If I found a piece of it now and could test it, if it really was hemp, it's one more point for him. I don't know if he thought that, though. Langley did.

I wish I had a decision-making tree. I wouldn't care what it was written on. I'd write my own, but I'd have to start with something. I don't know where to start. I tried. I wrote both their names, drew a box around each one, and tapped my pen on the table until my head ached.

Which one is more dangerous for me and for my family: Kersh or _her_? I've thought about it a lot. I've sat here, right here at my kitchen table, late into the night, and thought about it. Which one? I'm supposed to be lamenting over those I didn't spend enough time with or what I didn't say to them. That's what you're supposed to do in your old age. Instead, I think about the people I should have killed when I had the chance. I carried a gun. I didn't need to be close. The opportunities were countless, the method simple, the motivation clear.

But, which one?

I have to figure that out now. Right now. They're alive for a reason and both of them could be running half this country one day. _Both_ of them.

Maybe she is different now. The letter she wrote to me, delivered via Mary, is in a drawer. I can envision her sitting down at her desk, getting out a pen and paper, and writing it all out. The desk must have been elegant. The paper is plain. She didn't write it on something Presidential. She wasn't obnoxious about it. I bet she was smiling the whole time. Hey bitch. Remember me? I'm still here. Let's catch up. I'm paraphrasing but that's the gist. Why would she do that? I've thought about that, too. She met Mary, figured out who she was, and asked about me. I don't know what she thought happened to me up until that point, but she didn't go looking for me. She had to have known how easy it is, but until she met my granddaughter I was not on her mind.

Now I am.

And him? It's the same thing: he can find me. I've expected it. Wouldn't that be the first thing he'd do? Go looking for who was left? What worries me is that he hasn't. He'd have to know. There's been no letters, no strange phone calls, and he's never been here waiting when I come home. That worries me.

I remember one decision-making matrix in the academy. There were no handouts because there was a paper shortage. Some Daddy Bush-era thing, and I can't for the life of me remember why. It was up on a screen, written on transparency by the instructor:

 _When you're surrounded by enemies, you find the weakest one, and make him your ally._

It was a split-second decision. You burst into a hotel room full of druggies. Are they armed? Who isn't? Who is hostile and who is holding up their hands in surrender? You have to know in seconds who you can coax into submission, into being handcuffed, and carried away. Ashes, ashes, they all fall down like dominoes. Once one caves, the others follow. I don't know which one of them is the weakest. Him or her? I've thought about it.

I was thinking about it the last time I talked to Gibson. I was thinking about it as I boarded a train to the Center. I didn't stop thinking about it as I crossed through the wall. I was still thinking about it when I stood in the entrance to the Memorial and waited.

I think it's her. She's the weakest one. Gibson sought me out on his own and without her knowledge. I find the two of them baffling. What did she say to him to make him so loyal to her? What did she do to him? Does she know something about him? Does he love her? Is that what it is? My thoughts and my heart race while I pace around, wondering if they've been like that. Is that what it is? That can't be what it is. I see him enter, and I hide for a minute, not wanting that to be in my head when he sees me.

I was surprised he was alone. The media has been following him everywhere, and shouldn't he have some Guards with him? I was wondering how he'd get in here without anyone recognizing him. It's still unnerving to see him now, but that's what happens: children grow up. It's the way he walks, his mannerisms. Too wise and cynical for him even as an adult. Despite the pain I know it's caused him, I'm glad, for his sake, he's not stuck as a child forever.

He's hard to read. I learned that at the academy, too. I don't think there's a cluster of boxes for that. You can either do it or you can't. He's an interrogator's worst nightmare. No fidgeting. No tapping feet. His gaze is steady. No twitches, tells, or signs he's not what he appears to be. The only time he looks around is when some schoolchildren are near us. He doesn't want to be recognized. He's been all over the news, so it's not aversion or nervousness.

But his eyes change when I hand him the USB, when I push all the trust I have in him into his hands. _Please, Gibson_ – I think it loud so he'll hear it – _please don't let me down_.

And just like that he changes. He's a friend as he leans forward slightly, an ally, he's on my side. He's receptive. He's in this now, body and soul.

 _I'm trusting you, Gibson. Please don't let me down._

He changes. He's different. I'm more at ease with my decision. He's got the keys to the kingdom and please, God, let him do the right thing.

I decide it when he agrees: s _he's_ the weak one. And he's the reason why.

I can't seem to talk to him after that. I've asked something of him that could destroy me and my family if he's careless; if this is some elaborate scheme for revenge. It could be. He could tell _her_ every single time he meets with me and talks with me. And _she_ could be smiling at how well her plan is going. Can't he hear what's in her head? He'd have to know how she really is.

Maybe she is different now.

I ask him about Mary and he fidgets. Now he's nervous. The zipper of his coat is so interesting now. I hang on to that. I capture that. I ask him if they're boys or girls. He says they're one of each. He's pensive. He's smiling, like he's telling me a secret about himself. I smile back. I capture that, too.

It's perfect. I say that. It's truly perfect.

"She's named them already," he says. "Albert and Melissa."

I haven't heard her name in so long. Something inside me catches and snags. My eyes are tearing up before I can blink. "Melissa? She's naming the girl Melissa?"

"Yeah. She said you called her that one time."

"Did I?" My head spins. When did I tell Mary about Melissa? Did I? "I don't remember that."

"She was your sister, right?"

I rambled and brushed a tear away. He got me with that. I don't think he intended to, but he did. I tell him about Mary looking like her when she was younger, but I don't remember saying it to her. I probably did. I tell him about Emily and Marcus. It sort of spills out of me. I didn't plan on it. I watch his reaction, though. I think it was genuine surprise. He didn't know about it beforehand.

We're back to quiet. We're back to not knowing what else to say. I think about Mary's children. I've thought about what they'll be like. At a molecular level, genetically, biologically. Their hybridity. When I think about them, what they mean for this world, and how I'm in this now, body and soul, a verse in Revelation begins and ends. Just the first part. I can't finish it. _Then I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth…_ for the Heavens…no…for the Earth…no.

It hits a wall.

"Well," he says, ready to stand up. "I should get back."

I don't want him to go yet. I stay seated and study his face. Interrogator's worst nightmare. What did _she_ do to him? I asked him once, I asked him to help me understand why. Why is he loyal to _her_? Why won't he leave _her_ side? He said she saved him from something and it's probably true. But years of unfailing loyalty would have to go deeper than that. What is it then? Does he love her? Do they have some twisted romance between them?

When I asked him that evening, he got agitated. Anxious. Backing away, avoiding my eyes. When he left, I sat at my laptop and scrolled and scrolled and scrolled through images of them. I was up all night. If he'd never come to see me, and I could watch the South Region network, I eventually would have recognized him. _She's_ harder. She wears these big hats and sunglasses. The few images where she wasn't were taken from a distance. Her beauty shines through all her scars. I wanted to find her and choke her for that. Choke her for being alive when three good men are dead. Why is she still here?! She's saluted, called "ma'am," and people cheer.

Three good men are dead. She's still here and Kersh is still here and three good men are dead. I was seething. I paced back and forth, back and forth, wall to wall. Three good men are dead and _they're still here!_ I don't want to look anymore. There's more than what I see, because of content filters and Intelligence has a thing that limits how many search results I get. I can see it's a triumphant walk from her car to a train. From a train to a plane. From a train to a car. From a car to a government building. An image of her catches her just as she turns her head, looking right into the lens.

Hey bitch. Remember me?

And there Gibson was. Beside her. Behind her. Holding open doors. He was unnoticeable until he was appointed. She gave that to him. She gives him things. She gave him this. She gave it to my granddaughter. Power. They both do what she says. Mary's mine. My own flesh and blood, and she's doing exactly what this woman says. _She_ won't get her children, too.

I decide before he leaves: s _he's_ the weakest one. I'll kill her if she harms my family. I'll kill her if she harms him. I'll find a way.

In the midst of all that, trying to stifle those thoughts, all I said was: "I still can't believe this is you."

He's uncomfortable. Stepping away from me, looking around. I talk about the motel we kept him at. I bring him back to a night he was hearing something from me. It took him close to fifty years to tell me what I missed.

The discomfort goes away. He smiles at me. I think about how rare that is. "You think this is weird for you? I remember looking up at you. You're exactly the same as I remember you."

I'm sad then. Exactly the same? Inside and out? Sometimes I wish he was exactly the same.

He starts talking about Mulder. He's sad, too. I'm not listening. I just gave him the keys to the kingdom and my pregnant granddaughter is counting on him, too. She doesn't even know it. Her unborn babies are counting on him right now. God, I want to see her. Is she still getting sick? How big is she now? I could give her advice. I could tell her what to expect. I want to see her. I consider asking him to bring her here. I'll wait. I want to see her. Does she understand what she's doing? I can help her. I'll tell her everything.

I see he really wants to leave so I tell him I'm sorry.

"For what?"

I've said this before, but I repeat. "We should have looked for you. We should have done something. No one should have to go through what you did." And if we did, he wouldn't be with _her_.

"Well, they're all dead now. It's over."

It takes a second for me to realize who he's talking about. "How do you know that?"

I think he might stick around to tell me something. Another piece of his past. It struck me how little I know about him. He's been vague.

"I just do." That was all he said.

We stood in front of the Memorial for a few minutes. I look around at 2050, I hate it, and I can't wait to get back home. I take the time to thank him. He's going to see things no one has ever seen. I want him to know I'm grateful. He gets bashful almost, the discomfort obvious. He reminds me of something I didn't remember myself: I saved him once. I rescued him. I don't take the opportunity to bring _her_ up. But I will. I'll bring her up again.

He looked around. "I didn't think I'd ever see this."

"You? I should be dead by now." I should be. I should be resting in peace with three good men.

"Not necessarily. The life expectancy for white women is ninety-one now."

I smile. "Then I should consider myself lucky?"

He smiles. I wish he would do that more. "I would."

I thank him again, tell him to take care. He does the same. I board the train and he's still standing there watching me.

Then I remember all of it, the passage in Revelation. It clangs in my head like a bell. I wonder as the train takes off, if he hears it, too.

 _Then I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more._

* * *

"What did you say to him?" Emily asked again.

She stood at the window with William looking out at Mulder. He'd been sitting in the yard for hours now. His back was facing them in the lawn chair, his head in his hands. They could only see his shoulders in the porch light. It made him look headless.

"I asked him about Gibson Praise," William repeated. "It upset him." He turned to her. "What did that son of a bitch do to him? Did they ever tell you?"

He didn't know why that would upset his father, but he could take a few guesses. If Gibson Praise had done anything to his father or his mother, William wouldn't hesitate to find him and strangle the life out of him. He might be difficult to locate now. After he resigned in 2057, he'd pretty much disappeared.

"No," Emily shook her head. "But what did you _say_? What was it exactly?"

"I said: do you remember a man named Gibson Praise?"

"You said it exactly like that?"

"Yes," William replied impatiently. "Exactly like that!"

"That's why he's upset, then," She turned to look out the window. "Gibson was just a little boy the last time he saw him. He wouldn't remember him grown up."

"Are you absolutely sure about that?"

"Not absolutely, but that has to be what it is. They were friends, weren't they?"

William didn't answer. He really didn't know. The last time he'd seen Gibson in person was nearly thirteen years ago, and Gibson wasn't clear about how he knew his parents. He looked exactly the same, too. Hardly changed at all. He could still remember Gibson from the Amish farms they'd lived on, always staring at him and saying nothing. Except for the day William left.

"What's he doing?" Ephraim called from the living room. He was sitting next to Madison while she drank and watched her shows. It was one way of keeping her docile. Every once in a while, she'd stop drinking to drunkenly swipe through about 130,000 channels.

"He's just sitting there," William replied.

"Shouldn't you go out and talk to him?" Eve asked. She was sitting on the other side of her mother, making sure Madison had her whiskey when she wanted it. Aiden had left this morning to get Eve some oranges and sunflower seeds. She said she was having a craving. He hadn't come back yet. William was sure he'd gone home and left her here.

"One of us should." William looked over at Emily.

Emily quickly shook her head. "I wouldn't know what to say to him."

Esther came downstairs just then. "You're welcome," she said mockingly to Ephraim. "They're sound asleep no thanks to you!"

Sophia had to run up the road to the store, so Esther took the twins upstairs to get them into bed. Her brother couldn't leave Madison's side just in case she got up and started raging and throwing things.

"You want to sit here all night?" Ephraim barked. "Try to shut her up when she starts?"

Esther was getting ready to reply when William interrupted. "Stop it! You can fight all you want once he leaves, but for now – "

"He can't hear us!" Esther retorted. "And it doesn't matter anyway! We were always like this, so why should we pretend to be any different!"

"We don't need to upset him!"

"You upset him!" Ephraim interjected. "You talked to him about that guy! Maybe we should be out looking for him."

"Nobody else is leaving!" William exclaimed.

"Mary left," Esther replied. "Why do all of us have to stay?"

"Where do you need to be?" Ephraim yelled.

"Anywhere but here!" Esther shrieked.

William suddenly felt his anger and impatience drain from him as he got an idea. He went over to his daughter, looking her over. She used to have piercings all in her face, but she'd taken most of them out. Her hair used to be pink and purple and God knows what else, but now it was back to its natural blonde. Oddly enough, Esther had given him the least trouble over the years, leaving that honor to her siblings.

"Why don't you go out and talk to him?" William said calmly, putting his arm around her.

Her eyes widened. "Me?"

"Just go out there and talk to him," William urged her, gently guiding her towards the back door. "About anything at all. Maybe you'll say something he remembers."

Esther wouldn't budge. "I don't want to. What if I upset him all over again?"

"You won't. Just talk. Share a memory or something. It could be anything."

"I don't want to." Her phone started ringing and she looked at the screen. "I have to take this."

"Are you goddamned kidding me?" William roared. "Your grandfather's out there! Alive!"

"It'll only take a minute!" Esther roared back and went trotting out the front door.

Ephraim stood up started walking towards the back door. William stopped him. "Sit back down!"

"I'll talk to him!"

"Sit back down with your mother!"

Ephraim balled his fists. "I'm sick of sitting there! She's fine! Eve's right there!"

"I'm pregnant!" Eve pouted. "I can hardly stand up!"

"Nobody gives a shit!" Ephraim shouted at her. He turned to his father. "I'm going outside!"

"Sit back down!"

" _Daaadddddyyyy!_ " The twins cried in unison from upstairs.

"See what you did!" Ephraim growled and went running up the stairs.

Madison handed her glass to Eve. Eve filled it up and handed it back.

William shook his head. "This was a terrible idea. Look at us!"

Emily grabbed his arm. "Let's just leave him alone for a little while. He'll come back in when he's ready."

"We shouldn't have done this. It was better for him not to see this."

"Well, what can we do about it now?"

"Nothing."

"Then we'll just leave him alone." Emily was resolute. "He's the one having a hard time. All our problems are nothing in comparison. Coming back to a world and to people you don't know – it's bound to upset anyone."

"Just wish it was a better world." William looked over at Madison and Eve. "And better people."

He turned to go back to the window, Emily following behind him, but when he got there he saw the chair was empty.

His father was gone.

"Oh, shit!" He burst through the door and ran outside. "Dad!"

Emily ran out, too. "Where did he go?"

"It couldn't be far! Dad!"

They didn't see him. He was gone.

* * *

Esther ran down the front steps and out into the street so no one could hear her.

She answered the call. "Hey! Where are you? Are you close?"

"No," Simon replied. "We're like halfway there. We had to stop to fill up. I think we should have brought more fuel."

"So, everybody heard it then? Where are you going next? The Yukon?"

She heard shuffling gravel. "I don't know. Maybe Island 3 would be better." He paused. "I don't know what they're going to be like. They've been alone out there this whole time."

"They should be okay, right? They're not…the…the, um…"

"The violent ones?"

"Yeah."

"They're not really violent. They're just…brave."

"You think they'll remember you?"

"I don't know." He paused. "We'll have to be armed for sure."

Esther could hear his cousins talking in the background. Esther had never met them, but Simon told her Laura had a big mouth and Jennifer was okay.

"It's good to hear from you." She lowered her voice even though there was no one around. "Did you go to the Memorial already?"

He was quiet for a few seconds. There was chatter in the background. Esther bet that was Laura's big mouth. "No." His voice was quieter. "We're doing that last."

"Oh." She thought they would do that first in case something went wrong. "You shouldn't wait too long. Where's everyone else then?"

"The Grand Canyon. What's going on there?"

"Well," Esther began, not sure if she could tell him. "We kind of had like a family meeting."

"With…everybody?"

"Mostly." She knew who he was wondering about, but she brushed that from her mind. "It's been a shit show."

"Your mom's there?"

"Drunk off her ass."

He was quiet for a minute. "I'm sorry to hear that. Some people just don't want to quit. They'd rather die slowly than get better."

"Yeah." Esther was starting to walk up the road a little ways. It probably didn't matter if anyone heard her. They wouldn't know who she was talking to. "I think we're just going to put her in a home. I don't want to take care of her."

She could hear someone fussing at Simon in the background. Sounded like one of his cousins. "Do you have to go?"

"In a minute. Laura's going to check the engine really quick."

Esther stopped walking. When she looked up she saw someone standing right in front of her. It was her grandfather. She shrieked.

"What?" Simon asked. "Are you okay?"

Esther stared at him. Where did he come from? He was just standing there looking at her.

"Yeah. I have to go. I'll talk to you later."

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you." She hung up.

Her grandfather continued to look at her. It was in an empty sort of way, but she could tell he recognized her from the house.

"What are you doing out here?" She grabbed his hand. "Let's go back."

"Which one are you?" He asked.

"I'm Esther. Your granddaughter."

He stopped. "I don't want to go back."

He didn't look scared. Just worried. Confused. "We can stay out here for a minute." She paused. "But you have to go back."

"Why?"

"Because we're your family and we have to take care of you."

"Are you? How do I know that?"

Esther wasn't sure how to answer. How would he know? "Didn't you see all the pictures?"

He sighed. "What year is it?"

"2062."

"And we're in America?"

"No. This is the North American Union. Do you remember that?" She was hopeful. He remembered the United States. That was something. "It changed. Remember that?"

"No." His hands were shaking. "Did I die before or after that?"

"After. A long time after."

"How?"

Esther hesitated. She thought her father had explained it to him. "You had a stroke. I wasn't there…when it…when you…" She didn't want to say it, but he obviously understood.

"When I died?"

"Yeah. I was only eleven years old." She looked down at her feet. "Dad didn't want us to see you like that, so we stayed home. But we went to the funeral." She looked up at him. "You weren't like us. None of us knew why."

"Like you?"

"You were more…human."

"You're not?"

"No."

He was quiet for a minute. He looked up at the night sky. It was a clear night, millions of stars sparkling like jewels on black velvet. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry for anything." She sighed. "We should be sorry. You were at peace. I didn't want to do this to you." She nudged at crack in the pavement with her foot. "We do need you, though. That was the only reason why I decided to help."

"Need me for what?"

Esther thought it was better if he remembered everything else first. Anything she told him wouldn't make sense until he did. "Come on. Let's go back."

This time he went. Esther didn't want to be held responsible if he ran off. He didn't know where he was. Where would he even go?

"Can you take me to see my wife?" He asked.

"I don't think we can do that yet."

"No. Not we. You."

Esther stopped. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why? Did something happen to her?"

"Well, no. But…," She hesitated for a long time. Oh, why did she come outside? She should have gone upstairs to talk to Simon. "She doesn't know. It'll be worse if you don't recognize her."

"I'd like to see her."

"I don't know." Would it really be that bad? Maybe if he saw her in person it would all come back.

"Is she too far away?"

Not by train she wasn't. Esther bet they could be there in under an hour. "It's far enough."

"I feel like I should see her." He stared at her for a minute, curiously. He stepped closer to her. "You spilled your drink on me." He smiled faintly. "That was you, wasn't it?"

Esther's heart pounded. "Yes! That was me! You remember it?"

He nodded slowly, looking around them, then back at her. "You were little."

"Yes," Esther smiled sadly at the memory. Her and her siblings had only been about five years old. They'd gone with their father to see their grandparents. While Eve and Ephraim ran around their living room like a couple of ducks with ADD, Esther had sat down next to him on the couch, drinking fruit punch. He was watching something on TV, but she was trying to read his T-shirt.

He noticed her looking and pointed to it. "Washington Nats," he said. "Best damn baseball team ever."

Esther didn't know what he was talking about, so she just looked at him.

"Well, maybe the Red Sox were better."

Esther stared at him and took a sip of her fruit punch.

Her grandfather looked at her with amusement. "You've never watched baseball before?"

"No," Esther replied. "Daddy says it's silly."

"Did he?" He glanced irritably at her father, sitting awkwardly across the room with her grandmother. Her mother wasn't there. She rarely went with them on any visits.

"Come on," he stood up. "Let's find out if it's silly."

When Esther stood up with him, her fruit punch spilled all over his shirt. She thought he was going to be angry, so she immediately starting crying.

"It's just a shirt," he said to her. "I've got plenty more." He picked her up and carried her to the kitchen table and got a tissue. He crossed his eyes at her, and she giggled. "I needed a bath anyway."

He took her outside and tried to teach her how to play baseball. She wasn't very good at it. And after a while, her siblings came shrieking into the yard and the three of them tried to climb the trees. She saw him alive a couple more times after that, and he wore the fruit punch-stained T-shirt every single time. It was like their private joke. When he died, she certainly never thought she'd see him again.

And here he was.

"Do you remember anything else?" Esther asked him hopefully. "Playing baseball?"

He furrowed his brows and looked at the ground for a few seconds.

"You tried to teach me," she said. "I was holding the bat wrong, remember? It was upside down, and I kept throwing it at the ball."

He shook his head. "I don't remember that."

"You remembered something else at least," she smiled. "It was something." And thankfully it was a good memory.

He looked back at the house and at her. She could hear her father and Emily calling for him. "Please take me to see her."

Esther didn't know what to say.

"Do you know where she lives?"

"Maybe you should wait…"

"I need to see her. It doesn't have to be tonight." He looked back at the house. "In the morning. Can you take me in the morning?"

Esther heard her father and Emily running up the road towards them.

He was waiting for her to answer, but she couldn't. Would it be so bad to let him see her? It might be just the thing to get all his memories to come back. But what if he did see her and still didn't recognize her? It would be upsetting for both of them.

"Dad!" Her father ran up to them with Emily behind him. "You can't run off like that!" He grabbed him by the arm and began leading him back to the house. "You can't come out here without one of us with you!"

As Emily and her father took him back, her grandfather turned his head to her. She gave him a nod, put her phone away, and went back to the house.

* * *

 _Private Electronic Journal Entry, c. 2061, Dana Scully_

I'm 97.

On my birthday, I woke up before the sun. I didn't plan to. I just did. I lay there for a while, listening to the wind. There was about five inches of fresh snow on top of seven inches of old snow. I considered going out to shovel it, then I just considered laying there all day until the sun set. I can afford to lose a whole day. I have days to sell. I wish for a second that was something I could do. For someone that really needs just a little more time of their own. Hours, days, and minutes; I'd gladly donate.

When I did get up, I looked at myself in the mirror and said: "You're 97 years old."

I had to say it, because what I see doesn't match. Saying it out loud doesn't help. It doesn't change anything.

I can survey all my decisions with more insight now. I don't think it's wisdom. I think it's just context. I know which decisions were the best and which ones were the worst. That still leaves me with a lot of grey area. Too much actually.

How old will I be when I can say where this decision goes?

197? 297? 397?

It's going to happen. All of that is going to happen. It's as sure as the sunrise. It doesn't upset me as much as it did. Knowing you're going to live forever and never get old doesn't feel like how you'd think. There's nothing exciting about it. I feel left behind. I feel like God forgot about me.

I feel like how I did when I was eight and was accidentally left at the fair. My parents didn't mean to do it. They put Melissa in charge of me instead of our brothers. She was all dreamy-eyed and distracted at her age with that Partridge Family guy. She had an autographed picture of him and played his records until they were all scratched up. What was his name? He's long dead now. He didn't have to live forever.

It was hard for our parents to watch all of us at a place like a fair. I don't know what I did. I guess I wandered off, like most kids do. I was left behind and by the time I realized it, it was dark and the place was closing down for the night. I sat on the carousel and waited.

And waited.

It wasn't as long as it felt like. Melissa and my mother disagreed for years about it. Mom said it was a few minutes. Melissa said it was for hours. Either way, I remember that feeling. I felt like I was going to sit there forever. I felt like that was going to be my home. I was going to sit on that carousel forever waiting for my family to come back and take me home.

That's how it feels, though. I feel like I'm waiting for someone to come back and get me. This is home, however, and my family is all around me. This will still be my home and they'll still be my family one hundred years from now. I need to make it through the first one hundred years of my life.

At midnight on my 100th birthday my pension will stop. I think it's a way to kill us off faster. It passed into law a few years ago, but I wasn't worried about it until now. All the other people like me, who will actually age and decline, who will need more care and will definitely die if they lose their homes and can't get their medications, will suffer more than me. That's the point, though. We're a burden. There are a lot of suicides.

I'm thinking about it now because of David. He came to pick the twins up. Every time I see him, I'm terrified of how old he's getting. I think that's the hardest part: watching everyone I know and love just shrivel up and get closer to the grave. He gets around just fine and he's still as sharp as he was when I met him. But still…he's an old man.

He sat at the table with me while Melissa and Albert packed up their things. They know how to put everything back and hide it so Anne doesn't see it. She's smart, but she can't exactly look for something she doesn't know about. Melissa left one of her bracelets once. Anne and I went through an entire session and she never noticed it. I could have lied and said it was mine, but I was testing her.

"You need anything?" David asks me.

I shake my head. He always asks me that.

We sit there quietly while Albert and Melissa chatter as they pack up. Sometimes they sound like kids and other times they sound like adults. Despite everything, I think we've done a good job with them. David and I have done our best, and their parents have, too. They had to leave early. I don't like watching them say goodbye to each other. It's heartbreaking. It reminds me of a goodbye I had to endure with Mulder a long time ago.

"Do you know what you're going to do yet?" David asks me.

"About Anne?"

"Not that." He pauses and fiddles with his watch. He wears an old one. "Your hundredth birthday. Do you know what you're going to do?"

"If I lose my house, I can live with William or Emily." I shrug. "That's about as much as I've planned so far."

He nods and looks at me carefully. "Is everything he left you already gone?"

"Most of it." I wonder why he's asking me that, but I don't let on. "What's left is going to them." I nod towards the twins. "They probably won't need it. Hosteen's family was wealthy."

"They owned most of the Mojave, didn't they?"

"That and they owned solar companies."

There's a First People clause in the Declaration of the NAU. The bigger, well-known tribes got everything they wanted. Smaller ones have had a harder time, but they're still better off than they were. The twins are going to own the West one day. They'll own the world next.

I'm thinking about that so I don't notice when David moves his chair closer to me. "I wanted to ask you something."

I wait. He looks nervous.

"First, I want you to consider that even if you go live with one of your kids or grandkids, you won't have any privacy rights."

"I don't care about that." I shake my head. "I mean, I do. At least I'll have a home."

"If you're there, they'll have no privacy rights either."

"That's not entirely true," I shift in my seat. "Monica's son was never searched. She just had to log her personal activities."

"It was different with her."

I watch his face. God, he looks so old. He's going to die and all his memories of my son are going to die with him. He's given me things over the years. Pictures, clothes, toys, trophies, certificates that all belonged to William while he was growing up. It's not the same. I want to see what he saw and hear what he heard. All of that is going to go with him. He's told me stories, little tiny pieces of my son's life without me. I want to hear about it, I really do, but I can't take myself out of it. I can't stop thinking about how that could have been me had I just….just what? Disappeared? What could I have done differently? Truthfully, there is no limit on how many times you can ask yourself that.

David looks at me for a long time before he speaks again. "If you marry me, you'll have privacy rights. You'll be a citizen."

I look away from him for a second. I don't want to look shocked, but I am.

"You'll become a citizen. Automatically. Whatever I have will go to you and your family, too."

I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything.

"It doesn't have to be anything more than that," he adds, trying to reassure me. "We go to the Center, find a priest, and that's it. You come back here, and I go back up there. No more searches, no tracking, you can do everything a citizen can do."

Old Republicans trying to marry citizens isn't anything new. It's not a secret, but it's not talked about much. Usually because it's a scam of some kind, not that David would do that. I know of people who have answered ads on the Internet. They've paid high prices to citizens claiming they'll marry and divorce an Old Republican for x amount of money, but once they've gotten payment they disappear. The courts won't do anything because we have no rights, so they're just broke and stupid. I've heard costs from a couple thousand to hundreds of thousands of dollars. It's exactly as messed up as it sounds.

I think about what it would be like to never have to worry about Intelligence ever again. Or logging my visitors and phone calls. Or using that device in my car that maps out where I've been. Or keeping track of how much travel time I have left. Or not knowing about an earthquake, or a hurricane, or a political fallout until months or a year later. I could go anywhere anytime I wanted. I could buy a gun. I could vote. I would disappear from the registry and up in the North Council, where my son is, they would erase me from everything.

I clear my throat. "I don't want to change my name."

"I don't think people do that anymore."

My eyes are watering. I get a tissue and get up.

"You can think about it," he says. "But I want you to have everything. I've got property and some savings. A trust for William." He pauses. "He was a good kid. And he's a good man. He really is."

I dab at my eye. "I know."

"I hope you don't blame me."

"I don't."

I have my back to him. I hear him stand up. "I'll look for a priest, unless you know someone here."

"Not really," I turn to him. "Let me think about it."

He nods. "The twins will be twelve next year. I'm not guaranteed next year. Or even next week. You're going to need privacy and protection."

He's right. Absolutely right. They can't stay here with me full-time with Anne and Intelligence and the myriad of other intrusions. Where else can they go?

"I'll think about it," I promise.

The twins come down the hall, all packed up and ready to go. I don't know if they heard anything. Melissa has her snake draped around her neck. Albert has his fox in its carrier, its big fluffy tail sticking out. It has a name, but I can't pronounce it. He says it means _adept_ in Navajo. Each time I tell them goodbye, I get a little choked up. I know they'll be back. They always come back.

David hugs me, too. "Just think about it."

"I will," I promise.

I watch them leave, and my house is empty again. I didn't do anything worth mentioning that evening. Nothing productive. The next morning, I had some coffee, and reported my planned travel for the day. Anne showed up surprisingly early, and I kept an eye on that recorder. I didn't leave the room at all just to make sure she didn't have a chance to turn it off. Sometimes I keep talking, I keep blabbing on, just to keep her here. It's nice to have someone to talk to.

We finished up by 3:30pm. I made sure the recorder was off before I asked her. "What's it like to be a citizen?"

She tilted her head curiously, putting her bag on her shoulder.

"I just mean…what rights do you have?"

She shrugged like it was obvious. "All of them."

"You can really do whatever you want?"

"Yeah. I mean, I can't go around robbing or killing people."

I used to have rights. Different rights in a different place, but somehow I've forgotten what that was like. I feel like someone who's been starving asking someone else to describe a gourmet meal. "You have complete privacy?"

"Yes."

"Has anyone ever violated it?"

She looks thoughtful. "Not mine. My mother went on a website once that recorded her IP address. They created an ad that followed her web activity and she reported it."

"What happened?" I remember how annoying that was. I hadn't noticed that change.

"The site shut down and the owners were fined, I think. It wasn't just her, though. They were doing it to a lot of people." She sits back down, and suddenly I'm annoyed. "My dad's bank kept his birthdate in their system when he opened an account."

"His birthdate?"

"Banks shouldn't have information like that. It's private."

"What happened to the bank?"

"They fixed it, and he decided not to report it. It was an honest mistake. Somebody just forgot to tap a button."

That's a lot of privacy. That's extreme privacy. No one can know a thing about you unless you want them to. I bet if I typed Anne's name into a search engine, having full access to the Internet, I'd be arrested for just doing that.

"Well," I move towards the door so she'll get up. "I'll see you tomorrow."

When she leaves, I just sit around for a while, thinking. Hours later, after I'd eaten dinner and went out for a run, I take out my phone and send a text to David:

 _Next weekend let's meet in the Center._


End file.
